Knuckle Dusters
by twinkinu
Summary: A Mystery Trio AU in which everything is the same as regular Mystery Trio AUs except Stan has a black brindle Cane Corso mix named Knuckle Dusters. Typical monster-hunting shenanigans ensue—but now there's a dog in the mix.
1. The Wrong Part of Town

_Quick A/N before we begin: the timeline of this is a little wonky. basically, i'm pretending that five years was long enough for ford to go through undergrad, get his phd, and start his work on the portal with fiddleford. just play along and try not to think too much about the logistics._

* * *

"Fiddleford, I think that I'm ready to forgive my brother."

When Stanford entered the lab with his bold statement, a firm look of determination on his face, Fiddleford turned around and raised his eyebrows at his colleague.

"I know, I know. I mean, he was moronic and rude and obnoxious and undignified. He ruined my life for his own selfish purposes and didn't even try to understand how I felt." Stanford began pacing the floor, hands tight behind his back as he explained himself. "He's the sole reason that I wasn't able to attend West Coast Technical Institute, and if I had been admitted into that school, I could have done great things!"

"But I've been thinking," he went on, not giving the engineer a chance to speak. "He's my brother. My _twin._ For seventeen years, he was my best and only friend, and while he _seriously_ derailed my life, I suppose he didn't ruin it... Without West Coast Tech, it took much more work for me to get where I wanted to be, but I'm still here. And... if I hadn't been forced to attend Backupsmore, I suppose I wouldn't have met you."

Here, Stanford stood still and offered Fiddleford a small smile, then took his hands from behind his back and started wringing them together as he resumed his pacing.

"I think that I miss him, Fiddleford. It's been five years. Who knows where he is now, or what he's doing? I want to reach out to him, so I've decided to call up our ma and ask if she has his address. I'm still angry at him for what he did to me, and I'll never forget it, but I think that I'm prepared to forgive."

Stanford stopped again and clutched the fabric of his sweater, closing his eyes. "Maybe he'll be ready to forgive me, too," he whispered. Then, he heaved a deep breath to signify the end of his spiel and looked up with wide eyes to regard his colleague. "I just want to call or write to him, maybe invite him over for a few days, if he's willing. What do you think?"

Fiddleford was squinting now, lips parted just slightly. After a long, pregnant pause, he said, "Y'ain't ever told me you had a brother."

* * *

Stan woke up in his car to a guttural growl followed by bellowing barks. He shot up, ignoring the way his scrapes and bruises ached in protest, and instinctively reached under his seat to grab his switchblade.

"We got trouble, boy?" Stanley asked, voice low. Since he took it upon himself to adopt this dog eight months ago, the mastiff had obediently guarded his human every night while he slept, waking Stan at the first sign of any impending danger. This meant that for the past eight months, Stan had never woken up in an unfamiliar alley with a knife to his neck; he really appreciated ridding that inconvenience from his life.

He pat the dog on the head to let it know he was aware of the danger, which silenced the barks, but a growl continued to rumble like deep thunder. Then, Stan slid out of the car and held the blade out toward the shadowy figure approaching him. The mastiff followed Stan out and stood at his side, ready to attack if needed. "Settle," he said firmly, giving his dog the command to stand by until further notice. Stan tugged his hood over his head to hide his face before snarling into the night, "Get any closer, and I'll send the dog."

The figure stopped in its tracks about ten feet away. Stan squinted, trying to get a good look at him. Maybe he wouldn't need to send the dog... This guy sure didn't look like a huge threat. He was lanky and tiny, and he dressed like a nerd. What was a guy like that doing in this part of town?

They stared each other down for a long moment before the stranger spoke in a thick Appalachian accent.

"N-now- now- now- I don't want no tr-trouble, sir, I was just hopin' I could ask you somethin'."

Stan narrowed his eyes. He glanced at his dog, who was still crouched at his side, hackles raised. "Alright, babycakes," he said quietly, slapping the mastiff on the back. "I got this for now." The dog seemed hesitant, but sat at his human's side and relaxed, keeping a wary eye on the stranger.

Stan figured he would regret calling the dog off. But the absolute worst case scenario was Stan having to fight this guy, which he wasn't worried about in the least. He probably weighed less than half what Stan did when he was soaking wet.

"Whatcha want?" Stan spat, making a point of keeping his knife drawn.

The stranger was visibly shaken. He adjusted his glasses and stuttered, "I, uh, I-I- I recognized yer car."

Stan widened his eyes. _Shit_. The Stanleymobile was, indeed, used as an escape vehicle in a large number of various crimes. So if this guy was accusing him of something, it was paramount for Stan to keep cool. He quickly regained his composure. "It's a common car," he defended. The dog sensed his human's apprehension and stood back up.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, but I ain't seen hide nor hair of any car like yours, and I've been lookin' for a long while."

Stan tightened his grip around the knife and stepped forward with a threatening scowl. "I dunno what ya saw me do, pal, but I didn't do it!"

The stranger jumped back and scrambled to pull a crumpled photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He reached the photo out with trembling hands. "I-I just wanted to know if you seen this man before! Th-that's all!"

Stan leaned forward and squinted at the picture in the dim streetlights of the Richmond slums. His switchblade dropped to the ground when he saw it.

"Th-that feller in the white T-shirt on the left there. That's who I'm lookin' for."

It was Stan. It was Stan when he was seventeen, standing next to Ford with an arm hooked around his neck, grinning in front of the Stanleymobile.

Where did this guy get this picture? Why was this guy looking for _him_?

The jaw-dropped look on Stan's face suddenly turned into a scowl. He violently snatched the photograph from the stranger and jammed it in his pocket before tugging his hood further over his head to make sure he wasn't recognized. "Who the hell are you?"

Fiddleford's gentlemanly nature trumped his fear and he forced himself to stick out a hand. "F-Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, at your service."

The man eyed the outstretched hand in confusion and took a small step away. "Okay, Fiddbucket. The guy you're lookin' for-"

"Ya seen 'im?" Fiddleford clutched his hands together hopefully, widening his eyes.

They'd been searching for a couple of weeks now; Stanford had contacted his mother after explaining everything (well, most things) to Fiddleford, but unfortunately she came back with the disheartening news that her little free spirit had been drifting from place to place over the years and she had heard nothing of his whereabouts in months.

This news filled Stanford with a profound sense of worry, a deep feeling of guilt, and a gripping determination to find his brother and make sure they were on good (or, at the very least, okay-ish) terms.

Mrs. Pines was able to give them the last phone number that Stanley had called from, which belonged to a seedy bar in a seedy town just north of Fresno, California. Stanford got them on the road without any delay; Fiddleford was the hesitant voice of reason to his old friend's manic determination, but despite his quiet protests he was wholeheartedly a part of the mission, wanting to find Stanley almost just as much as Stanford did.

That seedy little bar was where they started their investigation, asking around with photos of Stanley and a description of his El Diablo. All the people who recognized him seemed to feel nothing but contempt toward Stanley Pines (whom they knew by many different names), and while the engineer was deeply unnerved by the amount of hatred most criminals felt toward Stanley, the idea of his twin getting into trouble with the law in order to survive only added fuel to Stanford's determined flames.

Stanford hadn't gotten more than five total hours of shut-eye in the last week, and the only way Fiddleford was able to convince him to get some rest tonight was to promise that he would continue the search for Stanley while he was asleep. That's how Fiddleford ended up in the eerie neighborhood, driving cautiously through in search of some clue that might lead them to Stanley's whereabouts.

So when he saw the El Diablo, Fiddleford was filled with hope. If he could get the license plate number then he could find the owner of the car, then that might lead them right to Stanley!

When he pulled over and started approaching the car, he didn't expect a man to be asleep inside it. And he _certainly_ didn't expect an enormous killer dog to threaten him with low growls, loud barks, and large teeth.

The crippling fear that he'd been feeling since that moment started to fade away, driven out by the return of hope when the man seemed to recognize the photograph. "I don't reckon you could help me find 'im?"

"Let's just say I _could_ help ya... Why're ya lookin'?

Fiddleford scratched the back of his head nervously, chewing on his lip as he struggled for something to say. His pa _did_ always say honesty's the best policy. "W-well, actually, a good friend of mine's the one lookin'. I'm just aimin' to help out, I reckon. My friend is the other feller in that there photograph that you just, uh, that you took from me just moments ago."

The man almost his balance, putting a hand on his dog to keep himself from toppling over. Fiddleford lunged forward instinctively to help, but he quickly backed off when the mastiff snarled a warning.

"Hey, no, no," the man said quietly, patting his dog on the back after successfully straightening himself out. "Babycakes, alright? This is a friend."

"Babycakes..." Fiddleford mumbled in confusion.

"It's, uh, it's like our safeword. It calls him off."

Fiddleford nodded once, a jerked motion of the head. As confusing as that was, he didn't want to think about what would have happened if the dog had been allowed to attack the engineer. He decided to be thankful that the man called his dog off and not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"So, this guy you're lookin' for... What's his name?"

"Stanley Pines."

A visible shiver passed down the man's spine. "And your... friend. What's his name?"

Fiddleford was confused by the sudden quiz but decided to answer whatever questions this man had. He could clearly help, and Fiddleford wanted him on his side. "Stanford Pines."

He almost seemed to lose balance again, but he was able to stay upright this time.

Stan was gonna see his brother. All reason left his mind as he realized this, and he didn't care why Ford wanted to find him or what would happen once they saw each other. He didn't care about anything but the idea of seeing Ford's face for the first time since they were seventeen.

He removed his hood, letting the yellow streetlight hit his face, and the Fiddlesticks guy gasped.

"Y-you're-"

"Stan Pines." He reached out a hand, which Fiddlefry quickly took in a (surprisingly firm) handshake. "At your service."


	2. Long Time, No See

Stanford woke up at two in the morning to the shrill tone of a phone call to his and Fiddleford's hotel room. He answered it groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "Hello?"

"Stanford." The engineer's nervous voice emerged from the other end of the call. "I think that your brother might be dangerous."

Stanford sat up straight, tightening his grip on the phone. "Did you find him?"

"Well, I- Just say we _do_ find 'im. What if he's dangerous? What if he's, say, got a knife and is apparently runnin' from the law and sorta threatened to stab me once or twice?"

That _definitely_ sounded like Stanley. "Fiddleford, _did you find him?"_

"I-" Fiddleford sighed. He couldn't lie. "Yeah, I reckon I did."

"Where is he?!"

"We're in a mighty dodgy neighborhood off 33rd street. He's in his car at the moment. Want me to put 'im on the phone?"

" _Yes!"_ Stanford's mouth spoke before his mind could tell it not to. He quickly clapped a hand to his forehead. "I mean, no. No, I can't. Is he… Is he doing okay?"

"I don't rightly know," Fiddleford admitted with a sigh. "I invited him to breakfast-"

"Good."

"-but he declined."

Stanford bit his lip. Stanley didn't want to see him. He wasn't interested in an olive branch; he wanted nothing to do with the brother who turned his back on him all those years ago.

He _hated_ him.

All too easily, Stanford gave up.

"I'm so sorry that I dragged you all this way, Fiddleford." Disappointment and remorse was clear in his voice.

"He said he didn't wanna go to a restaurant on account of his dog ain't allowed," Fiddleford quickly clarified.

Every process in Stanford's mind came to a complete halt at the sound of that three-letter word.

"His _dog?"_

* * *

Now that Stan had time to think, all of the second guesses and doubts started flooding his mind. What did Ford want? What would he say? What if he wants to be brothers again? And most importantly, how would he react to what Stan _looked_ like now? Stan sat in the front seat of his car, gazing down at the scars and bruises littering his body.

"I look like shit, don't I, buddy?"

The dog sighed loudly in his sleep and stretched out his paws a bit, though the backseat of the El Diablo really wasn't big enough for him to fit too comfortably.

"I know, kid. But if I'm gonna see Ford again… I gotta spruce myself up a little bit, right?" How long had it been? Ten years? Twenty? No, Stan was twenty-two now. That meant only five years had passed since he last saw his brother. But still, he looked so different. He wondered if Ford looked different, too.

Stan glanced up at the rear view mirror to see Fiddlesworth on the phone. He knew who was on the other end of that call, and it made his heart rate spike up to think about it. Maybe he should just drive away. Maybe this was a bad idea. Besides, Stan was almost certain that the only reason Ford would want to contact him after all this time would be to remind Stan what a failure and disappointment he was.

Even if Ford wanted to reconcile, Stan was way too anxious and definitely not ready to see twin again. Maybe he should just speed off and forget this whole thing ever happened…

But he looked back down at himself, seeing how his ribs were visible under his skin, his hip bones were poking out over the elastic of his boxers, the muscle he'd worked so hard to build up was slowly starting to ebb away. He'd been skipping out on meals an awful lot lately to make sure that his dog had enough to eat; he was a lot of dog and he needed a lot of calories to stay big and strong. Stan was proud when he looked at his mastiff and saw a huge, healthy animal, but he felt uneasy when he looked at himself and realized that he was wasting away.

Maybe it was time for Stan to swallow his pride and face his brother. He couldn't stop feeding his dog, but that meant he had to start looking for more ways to feed himself. And he was willing to risk a verbal beating from Ford for the sake of a free meal.

Stan was so lost in his thoughts that he almost screamed when Fiddledingie softly knocked on his window. The dog shot out of his sleep and started barking wildly, trying to pinpoint the location of the danger, and Stan quickly put his hand on the molosser's back. "Hey! Babycakes! It's alright. Babycakes. Settle down."

Fiddlestomp was now standing about ten feet from the car, eyes wide in fear. Once Stan got his dog to relax, he sighed and rolled the window down.

"I'm mighty sorry, Stanley, I sure didn't mean to startle you."

The name 'Stanley' still felt so foreign to his ears. "Uh, no, don't worry about it. So, is, uh—well, how'd it go?"

Fiddleford bit his lip and drummed his fingertips together, trying to decide how to phrase his request. He finally decided on, "Would you follow me back to my hotel?"

Stanley narrowed his eyes. "Listen, sweet cheeks, flattered as I am by the proposition, last time I said 'yes' to a question like that, I woke up missin' a kidney."

The engineer widened his eyes. "N-no, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—well, Stanford said I oughtta give you a place and time for the three of us to meet tomorrow, and then I oughtta head back to the hotel. But I can't in good conscious let ya sleep in your car on a night like this. So after I spoke with Stanford I called the hotel and got a room to put you up for the night."

It took Stan a long, long time to process what Fiddlekeys was trying to say. Was this… kindness? Come to think of it, a warm hotel bed didn't sound half bad to the homeless man. But there wasn't a chance in hell Stan would leave his dog alone overnight.

"I ain't leavin' the dog, Fiddlefingers. Just tell me where to meet ya tomorrow, and I'll be there."

"Why, I don't see why you couldn't take the hound in the hotel with you."

Stan blinked. "This isn't a trick, is it?" he slowly asked, furrowing his brow suspiciously.

"Stanford is my friend, Stanley, and that makes _you_ my friend by proxy. And I ain't ever done _nothin'_ to betray a friend." He held out his hand to punctuate the promise, and Stan couldn't help a small smile from growing on his face when he accepted the gesture.

He had to admit, he was kind of starting to like this Fiddleford guy; why not give the hotel thing a shot?

* * *

"You _what?"_

"Listen here, Stanford, you know my conscious wouldn't let me leave the poor guy out in his car all night! It's gettin' cold out there, and spendin' the night in that town may as well be hammerin' nails in your own coffin. Not to mention that hound of his was practically too big for the back seat!"

Stanford sighed, putting his head in his hands. "Was he really living in his car?"

Fiddleford frowned, noticing the guilt rise within his colleague, and sat beside him. He placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Stanford."

"On the contrary, old friend," the taller man said dolefully. "Everything's my fault."

"Stanford-"

"Bill Cipher, the portal, the _accident_ , your nightmares: none of it would have happened if it weren't for me. I managed to live with myself by staying in denial about Stanley's life. I told myself he was doing great out on his own and what happened between us was best for both of us. If my brother was safe, then I could focus on fixing my other mistakes. But now that I know what sort of life I left him to…"

"You know, I ain't entirely sure of what all happened between the two of you. But by the looks of it, it don't much matter whether or not you're the reason he's livin' this way. What's gonna matter is that you're the reason his life's turnin' around."

Stanford looked up at Fiddleford, eyes hopeful but confused.

The engineer offered a smile. "Well, Stanley _is_ movin' in with us, after all. Isn't he?"

He widened his eyes, not wanting to believe that his friend would be so hospitable. "Oh, Fiddleford, I could never ask you to do that—he's so loud and obnoxious and he'd interrupt our research. Though he may be able to help us dismantle the portal… But if he has a _dog,_ especially a _large_ dog, we couldn't possibly afford to take care of it. It'll run amok and ruin everything, though I suppose Stanley could keep an eye on him while we're working." It started to become glaringly obvious that Stanford had actually given this idea quite a bit of thought. "A guard dog _would_ be incredibly useful to have around the house... But we'd have to find Stanley a bedroom, though I suppose we could convert that storage room that I haven't been using-"

"Stanford." Fiddleford stood up, turning so he could look his fellow scientist in the eye. "He's _your_ brother, and it's _your_ house, and I ain't about to get in the way of the two of you mendin' broken bonds. Now, you can try all you like to talk yourself out of it, but it's mighty clear to me what your heart's tellin' you to do. You and I both know we ain't goin' back to Gravity Falls without Stanley in towe."

Stanford had to admit, he was actually a bit relieved to see Fiddleford on his side. He smiled at the engineer and placed a meaningful hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Professor."

"Not a problem, Doc."

* * *

The first thing that Stan did when he walked into his hotel room was take a shower.

Well, okay—the first thing that he did when he walked into his hotel room was raid every cabinet and drawer for complementary odds and ends, shoving all the free stuff he could find into his pockets because, hey, old habits die hard. But the _second_ thing he did was take a shower.

He peeled off his clothes, which were wrinkled and stained from years of continuous wear, then took a moment to stare at himself in the large mirror. In a lot of ways, he looked the same as he did when he was seventeen. Despite his waist growing thinner as time dragged on, his constant fleeing, fumbling, and fighting kept his shoulders broad, his arms thick, his legs strong. He was tall and wide and ready for a fight, just like he was when he was a kid. But he had changed a lot, too. He had bruised ribs and long scars on his shoulders, and his jaw was stronger, set like stone after Stan spent years learning the hard way to never let his guard down.

In a lot of ways, Stan looked the same as he did when he was seventeen. But he wasn't innocent, anymore.

He sighed and stepped into the shower. The dog sat obediently at the bathroom door while Stan let the hot water pour over him, felt the shampoo lather his short, brown hair, inhaled the sweet scent of the bar soap as he cleaned himself off.

Stan honestly couldn't remember the last time that he took a shower, as disgusting as that was. On good days, he had enough time to take a whore's bath in a convenience store bathroom before shoplifting a hotdog or two to share with his dog and hauling ass out of town. But now, he was in a real hotel room. The place wasn't exactly the Ritz, but mediocre as it was, it was a hell of a lot better than Stan's car. He was so grateful to have a real roof over his head that Fiddlewhatever could've said it was Cinderella's Castle and Stan wouldn't have questioned it for a second.

He just stood under the spray of water until it turned cold, then he stayed a little bit more. He could've sworn he almost fell asleep standing up like a horse at least once or twice; the clean, steamy water enveloped him in a warm mist that Stan would have thought a distant dream last night, but now here he was. He turned the water off after almost an hour of just losing himself in the unfamiliar sensation of cleanliness. His fingers were prunes and his legs felt like jelly when he stepped out of the tub.

He took his sweet ass time drying off, enjoying the touch of the soft towel gliding over his skin. He stole a glance at himself in the mirror and actually laughed a little bit; he looked _clean._

The mastiff could sense that they were safe within the hotel and had taken it upon himself to sprawl out in the more spacious area, jowls dragged across the carpet as he dozed happily in the warm room.

The dog felt so secure that when he heard a knock at the door, he didn't even bark. He did, however, rouse himself from sleep and assume his position following close behind his human, now alert.

Stan was only halfway out of his shower-induced stupor and came the door expecting a maid despite the ungodly time of day (four o'clock in the morning). A pearl-white towel was draped across his hips, revealing an entire torso of pure muscle-on-bone as well as every scrape and scar he had to show. He was lazily scrubbing his hair dry with a second towel when he opened the door.

On the other side of that door, one six-fingered fist raised in preparation to knock again, was none other than Stanford Filbrick Pines.

The brothers' faces upon seeing each other were mirror images, gaping expressions with wide eyes and pale cheeks.

Ford _did_ look different. He wasn't the little teenage nerd Stan had left behind. He was broad and strong, stubble peppering his face, a face stonier than it used to be. Stan eyed his brother's arms and noted that he had some scars of his own, now, though Moses knows where they came from.

But he also looked the same. He had the same awkward elbows, the dimple in his chin, the unruly, fluffy hair.

They locked eyes and just stared, each of them a deer in the headlights of his brother's gaze.

Mixed emotions rose to the surface as they recovered from the initial shock of seeing each other. Pain, remorse, pride, happiness, anger, relief, regret, rage, guilt. In that order. And then, all conflicting emotions were drowned by a flood of nostalgia. Stan was the first to regain his composure.

"Long time, no see, Poindexter."


	3. Andrew 8-Ball Alcatraz

_A/N: Just in case anyone was thinking about it for any reason, the dog here is a mixed breed, he was a stray and definitely wouldn't be purebred cane corso, but he definitely looks like one. he's a bit larger and more muscular than a full cane corso would be; in my head, he's probably primarily cane corso with some bully kutta, neapolitan mastiff, and presa canario mixed in..._

 _also: "cane" is pronounced like kah-neh. not like candy cane._

 _ **TRIGGER WARNING** for this chapter: there's a little bit of violence—just some hand-to-hand combat. also, there are mentions of illegal drugs, but NO mentions or depictions of USING the drugs/getting 'high.' just stealing, not consuming._

 _p.s.: did you know? the term "8-ball" is used as slang to refer to an eighth-ounce of crystal methamphetamine... interesting, no?_

* * *

"Long time, no see, Poindexter."

Ford clamped a hand over his mouth, feeling his eyes get misty. He really, really missed the way that nickname sounded when his brother said it. As a grin split his face and nervous laughter spilled from his lips, he grabbed his stomach and doubled over with the force of his laughter. "Put some pants on, you dork," he cackled.

Stan looked down at himself with a surprised frown, then grinned defiantly and punched his brother in the shoulder. "Hey, shut up!" He stepped back to let Ford walk in. "Be right back."

As Stanley headed for the bathroom, Stanford took notice of the molosser in the room that had the researcher fixed in its vigilant stare. So, Fiddleford hadn't been lying… Stanley really _did_ have a dog now. A breathtaking one, too. Stanford couldn't help but feel humbled under the dog's discriminating gaze—and humility was something that he hardly ever felt. The thing was enormous, two and a half feet tall at the shoulder, bulky and broad and easily weighing two hundred pounds. He had short, ebony fur with streaks of umber brown and deep-set amber eyes. He was aloof and powerful, a stunning specimen, and Stanford was momentarily left breathless.

He knelt hesitantly in front of the dog and held out a hand to let it sniff. The mastiff remained guarded, eyeing the scientist as if sizing him up.

The dog was getting very mixed feelings about this new human. He _looked_ the same as Friend, but at the same time was definitely _not_ the same as Friend. The guardian had to protect Friend at all costs, and that meant Don't Trust Strangers. But for some reason, this Stranger didn't seem as Strange as most Strangers usually seem… This Stranger seemed Good and Kind and the dog could sense that Friend liked him, wanted him, trusted him… But also, there was something dark about the Stranger, an aura of foreboding that made the dog hesitant to get too close.

When the dog saw an outstretched hand, he huffed at it suspiciously. The Stranger didn't smell like the Bad Guys that he'd smelled before. He smelled like pine needles and electricity and guilt and sonder.

"You're very careful, aren't you, buddy?" Stanford said softly. He slowly moved his hand forward, paying close attention to the mastiff's comfort, until he could gently scratch the dog behind his battle-cropped ears. "I'll bet you've been taking great care of my brother for me."

Before too long, Stan emerged from the bathroom in his ratty shirt and ripped jeans, hair combed back, and he watched his brother interact with his dog. They were getting along surprisingly well; they weren't best friends or anything, but the dog was actually letting Ford pet him; that was a really good sign, considering his notoriety for despising every living human except for Stan. Stan made sure to pat the molosser on the head to let him know he was doing well to be friendly.

"Is this a Cane Corso?" Ford asked, and Stan shrugged.

"I'unno. He's a lot of things, probably. What makes ya say that?"

"He looks very similar to a Cane Corso that one of my college professors had. He's quite a bit bulkier, though."

"He's a big guy," Stan shrugged, a warm sense of pride rising in his chest. The dog really _was_ gigantic—just incredible.

"How did you two end up together?"

"Eh, we were both roamin' the streets of Arizona lookin' for food. I felt bad he didn't have thumbs to steal with, so I tossed him half the burger I snagged from the trash. He kinda followed me around after that. He was real young back then… I think he's a year, now."

Stanford nodded and stood up, deciding to ignore the fact that Stanley had apparently gotten so low that he needed to steal food from the garbage. He supposed he would probably be ignoring a lot of things, from now on. He gave his twin another once-over now that he was dressed. Somehow, Stanley had managed to not change at all since they last saw each other—but at the same time, he'd changed a _lot_. He could still see the goofy naïvety in Stan's eyes, but it was further away now, hidden distantly behind a hard film.

Before he even realized how he felt, Stanford heard himself say it: "I missed you, Lee."

Stan looked away, his cheeks turning a warm rosy pink, and he scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. Ford hadn't called him 'Lee' since they were fifteen. "Aw, shucks, Ford. Ya sure know how to make a gal blush."

The scientist laughed, but this time it wasn't nervous. It was effortless. It was comfortable. "Oh, whatever, you knucklehead." He gave Stan a playful shove.

The dog growled a little, his muscles growing tense. "Hey," Stan said firmly. "This guy's a friend, okay? _Friend."_ When he didn't calm down, Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. I guess I never woulda taught ya that word. We'll deal with that later, okay? For now, just settle." Once the dog was a little more relaxed, Stan looked at Ford with apologetic eyes. "He's real protective."

"Italian mastiffs are excellent guard dogs," Ford noted with an understanding nod. He was actually a bit impressed with the dog's training (and thankful that Stanley had someone to look out for him). Then, he decided to change the subject. "I'm, uh… I'm sorry that your first interaction with Fiddleford was less than ideal."

"Oh, yeah, that guy. Heh, don't worry about it. I'm the one who made the bad impression… I didn't freak 'im out too bad, did I?"

Ford shook his head, offering a reassuring smile. He thought of how, although Ford had conceived it the moment his mother admitted not knowing where Stan was, Fiddleford was the one who first vocalized the idea of asking Stan to move in with them. Now wasn't a good time to bring that up, though. "Don't worry. I think that he likes you."

Stan nodded, relieved. "How'd ya meet that Fiddles guy, anyway?"

"Oh, we were roommates in college. We parted ways when we started studying for our graduate degrees, but I called him up to aid me with my research when I started my investigations in…" Ford trailed off and bit his lip. "Perhaps that's a story for another time."

"So, where's the little man now?"

"He's asleep. I couldn't relax, though, so I thought I'd come pay you a visit."

Stan smiled. "I'm glad ya did."

"Yeah. Me, too."

They stood in oddly comfortable silence for a while, just soaking up each other's presence, still getting used to how big they've gotten since highschool.

Stan started getting a bit fidgety as time went on. He glanced at the clock on the wall – 4:36 – and dug around in his pocket for his dog's leash. He held it up to indicate his idea. "Wanna go for a walk? Ya could explain your nerd-vestigations to me."

"As long as that leash is for your dog, I'm up for anything."

"I dunno," Stan teased, twirling the leash around in the air with a smirk. "Don't want ya runnin' away from me, after all."

Ford smiled, just a little bit wistful. "You don't have to worry about that, Stanley. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

* * *

The brothers wandered the streets together, making small talk and laughing at each other's little jokes. Ford explained how he began his studies of anomalies in Gravity Falls, detailing a few stories of times that he landed himself in hot water with the supernatural, and Stan teased him for always being a magnet for disaster. That got Ford to excitedly prattle on about something to do with 'weirdness magnetism' and 'complex differential equations.'

Stan chuckled when Ford came to a stopping point in his explanation, shaking his head fondly. "Sounds like ya ended up right where ya always wanted to be, after all."

Ford winced a little bit, feeling a familiar guilt overcome him. "Yeah. I suppose my life turned out alright."

Stan looked at his brother with a surprised frown. He hadn't meant to make him feel guilty for the way Stan's life turned out. Or, okay, he _had_ meant that, but he regretted it as soon as he saw the sincere remorse on Ford's face. "Hey, no." He put a hand on his brother's shoulder with a sad but reassuring smile. "I'm proud of ya, Sixer."

Stanford opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he was interrupted by a low snarl and a bark from Stanley's dog. The molosser was crouched down, hackles standing on end, lip curled menacingly. The twins whipped their heads forward to see the shadowy figures approaching them, three men wearing large coats and sinister scowls. Stan paled when he recognized the familiar gang tattoos that they all proudly displayed.

He knew what these guys wanted.

The dog growled and stepped forward, then barked again. "Hush," Stan commanded, yanking back on the leash. The mastiff coughed when the chain martingale tightened around his neck. Stan felt a bit guilty, but he tugged back again; the dog might have been good in a fight, but he wouldn't be much help if he got killed for causing too much ruckus before the fight even started. These guys had guns and wouldn't hesitate to use them if they needed to silence a guard dog. " _Hush,"_ he hissed again, desperate to quiet his friend. But the impending danger the dog sensed was strong enough to make him ignore Stan's command, and he kept growling.

Stan was reluctant to use the safeword on him; he definitely didn't want him thinking these guys were _safe,_ but he needed the dog to shut up. " _Babycakes,_ okay? Babycakes."

Stanford wasn't an idiot. Quite the opposite, in fact. He could tell what sort of situation they were in. But hearing that word spoken in his Stanley's voice just begged acknowledgement. " _Babycakes?_ Sweet Moses, Stanley, please tell me that's not his name."

Stan huffed indignantly. "No, Brainiac. It's Knuckle Dusters."

"Knuckle Dusters? Where on Earth did you come up with-"

He cut himself off when a golden glint caught his eye. Stanley was pushing the dog's leash out toward his twin, waiting for Stanford to take it from his hand. Slid over his fingers, glimmering in the Richmond streetlights, were a set of brass knuckles.

"Oh."

As soon as Stanford accepted the leash, Stanley regarded the oncoming danger and clenched his fists, trying to ready himself. "Take him back to the hotel."

"No."

Surprised by Ford's immediate refusal to comply, Stan looked over his shoulder. He saw his brother and his dog both leaning forward in preparation for whatever was coming.

Stan scowled. Would it even be worth arguing? Stanford was one of the most stubborn human beings in the world, second only to their dad, and the dog could probably give Filbrick a good run for his money. But Stan was desperate. He decided he may as well try. " _Please._ I don't want you to see this."

Stanford wasn't sure exactly what it was that he would be seeing, but he didn't care. With a conviction that could've moved mountains, he said, "I'm not turning my back on you, Stanley."

Stan ducked his head with the smallest smile that was only the least bit bitter. _The nerd really_ has _changed._ But Stan's bitterness was easily drowned out by the warm confidence that swelled in his chest. He had his brother's support. "Fine. Just stay back, okay? I can handle this by myself."

Stan almost felt bad for the lie he just told; of course he couldn't handle this by himself. He might have had brass knuckles and the will of the warrior, but he was quite literally bringing a knife (or, his fists) to a gunfight, here.

Regardless, he didn't want his brother – or his dog – getting involved. He wouldn't be able to stand either of them getting hurt.

Once the men were close enough for their faces to be visible, the tallest one, the one in the front with greasy black hair and a nasty scar on his face, said, "Well, well, well. If it isn't our good friend, Andy Alcatraz."

"Listen, I don't want trouble."

"Then you shouldn't'a stole all that crystal."

"I took an 8-ball, Lucas. That's it."

"Yeah, yeah. Just an 8-ball. Always just an 8-ball."

One of the other men, a dark, stocky guy with too many tattoos named Angel, said in a Latin accent, "Ya got a real good system goin' for ya. Ya took _thirty_ 8-balls before we noticed ya were stealin' from us."

"But we noticed," Lucas said. "And unless you got the money to pay for yer poison, I'm afraid my boys and I are gonna have to teach you a lesson."

"That ain't my poison," Stan snarled. "Wouldn't touch that shit with a ten-foot pole. I had some debt and wanted to keep the guy on my good side."

"Well, now you got the wrong guys on your bad side. So, what'll it be? Give us the money and die fast, or cheat us out and die slow?"

"Slow," Stan growled, bending his knees and getting low in what Ford recognized as a boxing stance.

He was preparing to fight.

Lucas threw the first punch. It landed square on Stan's nose, but Stan managed to grab the man's arm and kick the gun out of his belt. These guys were dirty fighters, and the most important thing for Stan to do was disarm them before they could draw their weapons.

Stan twisted Lucas' arm and tugged hard, a sharp backward jerk that pulled his shoulder out of place. He cried out in pain, landing a hard punch to Stan's mouth with his free arm before Stan pushed him to the ground.

There was one good thing about these guys having guns to rely on: they didn't know much when it came to strategy.

The instant that Lucas's fist made contact with Stan's face, Knuckles let out a growl that could have struck fear into God himself, then charged toward his human, barking like mad. His battle cries were thunderous roars that shook the ground as he ripped the leash from Ford's grip with a force that pulled the scientist face-down into the concrete.

As Stan was slamming Lucas onto the ground, he saw the Cane Corso barrel past him and pounce on Ringo, a short, bald man with bandages around his wrists.

Stan gasped when he saw his dog join the fight, then scowled as he threw a metal-clad right hook at Angel. " _Really,_ Stanford?!" he roared, an incredulous accusation. "Ya had _one_ job!"

"It wasn't as if I could've held him back, Stanley!" Ford defended as he pulled himself from the sidewalk, shouting over Ringo's cries for help. "The dog weighs as much as _I_ do!"

"Well, maybe you should gain some _weight!"_ Stan retorted through clenched teeth, punctuating his remark with a second blow to Angel's jaw.

As Ford stood up, he felt Lucas jump him from behind, trapping him in a headlock. Despite having taken his last self defense class years ago, it somehow came as second nature for Ford to roll his shoulder forward, slipping out of the hold and flipping his assailant onto his back. Lucas lost consciousness when his head hit the pavement.

Stan threw Angel onto the ground and stomped him against the curb until he, too, was unconscious. He turned his gaze to his dog as he tried to catch his breath. The molosser was sitting on top of an unconscious Ringo, who had deep puncture wounds in his right arm, wounds surrounded by tears in the skin and muscle where the man had struggled in vain. "Get off the poor guy, Knuckles. Your job is done. C'mon."

The dog happily trotted over to his human, smiling and wagging his tail. He looked nothing like the beast that had just moments ago nearly ripped a man's arm off.

The brothers stood in silence for a while, both recovering from the physical exertion as adrenaline drained from their bodies.

"Hey, thanks," Stan breathed. "For the help."

"Yeah," Ford panted, hands on his knees. "Don't mention it. Let's just, uh, get back to the hotel, okay?" He glanced up at the sky and realized that what had once been an endless black was already becoming a milky indigo as sunrise drew closer with each passing minute. "Before the police show up?"

"Hey, good idea," Stan smirked. "Ya must be some kinda genius."

Ford rolled his eyes and held the leash out to his twin. "Get your dog, and let's go, you knucklehead."


	4. First Aid

_A/N: Thank you guys so much for all of your kind reviews! I really never expected such positive feedback, or for very many people to even read this fic at all... You've tempted me to post the next chapter even though chapter 3's only been up for a couple hours... it's a short one, anyway!_

* * *

It was about half an hour to walk back to the hotel. Once they entered Stan's room and light was shed on the homeless man's face, Ford was shocked to see all of the injuries his brother had sustained: the split lip, the swollen eye, the bloody nose… The _really_ bloody nose… Oh, Moses, there was a _lot_ of blood coming from that nose. "Stanley, your nose is broken!"

"Is it?" Stan tapped the tip of his nose and winced, sucking in a sharp breath. Then, he smiled sheepishly with a weak chuckle. "That's gonna leave a mark, huh?"

Ford pressed his fingers to his temples, exasperated. "For Moses' sake, Stanley, come here." He grabbed a couple of clean towels from the bathroom, then took his brother gently by the shoulders and sat him down on the edge of the bed. "Blow into this," he instructed, holding up one of the towels.

Stan obliged, remembering when Ford used to help him treat all the injuries he sustained in boxing matches. He would have felt nostalgic were he not so busy feeling lightheaded and dizzy. He blew his nose into the towel as hard as he could and grimaced when he saw the huge amount of blood and mucous left behind. "Gross."

"Indeed," Ford hummed. He folded the towel and set it aside, then took the second towel and held it up. "You're going to want to bite down on this."

"Woah, hey, slow down, there, Buttercup. I've had a great time tonight, and all, but I don't think I'm ready to go all the way."

Ford rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. Stan would make the exact same joke all the time when they were teenagers. "Just shut up and take the towel, okay?"

"Alright, fine." Stan snatched the rag from his brother and shoved it in his mouth.

Ford took a deep breath to help himself concentrate, then pressed his fingertips together and gently molded his hands around Stan's nose. "Breathe in, Stanley."

He obliged, inhaling deeply around the cloth between his teeth.

"Now, bite down."

Stan clenched his jaw around the towel, sinking his teeth firmly into it while Ford carefully pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped the bones back into place, pulling down toward his chin to straighten everything out. Stan groaned, shutting his eyes tight, and Knuckles whined softly and placed his heavy head on his Friend's knee.

Once Ford was finished, he took his hands off to inspect his work. After deciding he was satisfied with the readjustment, he took the towel out of his brother's mouth. "Better?"

Stan experimentally screwed his face up, wrinkling his nose and crossing his eyes. Still sore, but his headache was (mostly) gone and he could actually breathe through his nose again. He relaxed his expression with a wide smile. "Better."

"Good." Ford stood and grabbed an empty pillowcase from the bed, then walked over to the icebox in the corner and scooped some ice into it. He tied the makeshift ice pack off with a knot and returned to his brother's side. "Lie down, Stanley."

"I can take care of myself, y'know," Stan grumbled. Now that he could actually think straight, he was feeling a bit uncomfortable to have his brother fussing over him. He wasn't important enough to be tended to like this; he just wasn't worth the energy. Still, though, he obliged, falling onto his back. "I've been doin' it this long."

"I know," Ford whispered, gently setting the ice over Stan's black eye. "But you don't have to, anymore."

That brought a small smile to Stan's face, but before long, it faded into a troubled frown. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to build up the nerve to speak his mind.

Finally, he said it:

"Why is this so easy, Stanford?"

Stanford's muscles tensed for a fraction of a second. He couldn't pretend that he hadn't noticed; his interactions with his brother had been incredibly _easy_ , so far, like they picked up right where they left off all those years ago. Everything was natural. He had expected anxiety, tension, anger, yelling, fighting; none of that ever came. It was there briefly, rearing its ugly head right when they first saw each other, but the moment that Stan spoke, the very second that he broke the ice with that comically understated remark – _Long time, no see, Poindexter_ – everything was just so _easy_. And neither brother knew why. For once, Stanford didn't have any answers. He didn't even have theories.

"I don't know," he finally admitted.

"I mean, aren't ya still mad at me?"

"Well, I-" Stanford hesitated. He hadn't wanted to bring this up, but if Stanley was asking, then why lie? "Yeah. Yes. I'm still mad at you. Aren't _you_ mad at _me?"_

Stanley didn't hesitate for a second. "Of course I'm mad. I'm _pissed_. But even though I know I'm still mad at ya… I don't _feel_ mad. Y'know?"

"I do." Stanford smiled sadly at his twin. "I just feel…" He struggled to find words. He had never been very good with feelings.

"I feel like I missed ya," Stan tried. "I feel like I'm still mad, but my anger's all tired now. It's been workin' itself to death for five years and when I saw ya, it just burned out. And it went away to make room for how I missed ya so much."

Stanford smiled wistfully, and there was a long stretch of silence. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "That's how I feel, too."


	5. Burned Bridges

Fiddleford woke up screaming and drenched in cold sweat. He gasped for air, heart pounding in his ears, and curled in on himself as he tried in vain to stop trembling.

Ever since The Incident, Fiddleford hadn't been able to sleep without the nightmares, the images of gruesome monsters and hellish torture and the eyes, all the eyes, watching him… always _watching…_

They had to get home and finish dismantling that portal, ASAP.

He tried to do what Stanford had suggested and counted to ten in his head, then back down. Then, he counted to twenty and back down. Then thirty, then forty, then fifty…

He was counting to ninety and back down before he was stable enough to swing his legs off the side of the couch and try to stand. He looked over to the bed, expecting to see his research partner, but it was empty. He grimaced.

"'No, Stanford, _you_ have the bed,'" he grumbled, recalling the conversation they had when they first checked into the hotel. "'You're a big guy; you _need_ it. You _deserve_ it. I'm small, I can fit on the couch.' That's classic Stanford for you, talkin' me into givin' 'im the bed, but he don't even sleep in it."

Fiddleford continued muttering bitterly to himself as he looked around the room. Usually, when Stanford left while Fiddleford was asleep, he left some sort of a note behind…

The engineer smiled when he saw a small piece of paper left on the bedside table. _There we go._ In Stanford's inky cursive scrawl, the note read:

' _Fiddleford:_

 _HE Δ wouldn't let me sleep._

 _I'm going to visit Stanley._

 _I will see you in the morning._

 _Stanford."_

Fiddleford winced at the mention of the triangle. Neither of the scientists had been able to sleep much lately; Fiddleford was plagued with nightmares and memories of what he saw on the other side of the portal, and Stanford's dreams were constantly disturbed by the demon and his incessant harassment.

But Fiddleford was glad to see that Stanford had decided to confront his brother. He flipped the small paper over to see if the message had been timestamped; Stanford had made a habit of writing the time on his notes. When he left on monster hunts and trips to the forest, Fiddleford needed to know if he had been gone too long and may be in need of help. Sure enough, in the lower right corner, Stanford had written:

' _03.52'_

So it had been nearly three hours, and Stanford was still gone… This meant that the brothers' reunion was going either exceptionally well or exceptionally poorly.

Nervous that the latter may be the case, Fiddleford quickly cleaned himself off and put on his shoes so that he could head down to Stanley's room and check on them. He stopped at the lobby on his way and collected some components of the continental breakfast; he and Stanford rarely ate anything other than canned meat, dry cereal, and raw vegetables, so he figured it may be nice to show up with bacon, pancakes, and fruit.

And coffee. A lot of coffee.

He knocked gently on the door, balancing the food and drinks awkwardly in his arms, but there was no answer. He tried to open the door and found it unlocked, so he slowly walked in, bracing himself for the dog.

But no dog came.

Fiddleford blinked at the scene before him, bewildered.

Everybody was asleep. Stanley was sprawled out in such a way that he managed to occupy the entire bed, and Stanford was on his knees on the floor, arms folded on the edge of the mattress so he could use them as a pillow. His glasses were still on and his brother's hand was buried deep in his thick, shaggy hair. Both brothers were snoring like sawing logs.

Even the dog was asleep, snoring at a comical volume, curled up as small as possible so he could fit on the bed. Even in a tight ball, however, the molosser could only fit if half of his body was on top of Stanley.

Fiddleford smiled, his heart warming at the sight. As quietly as he could manage, he set all of the food and drinks on the coffee table; he should let them sleep.

Then, he noticed the deep bruises and dried blood adorning Stanley's face, as well as the scrapes and swellings around Stanford's neck and shoulders. Both twins were all marked up, and Fiddleford couldn't stop himself from crying out, "Sweet Lord almighty, what in tarnation _happened_ to the two of you?!"

The dog immediately started barking, accidentally throwing himself off of the bed with the force of his reaction. A loud _thump_ shook the room when all two hundred pounds of mastiff hit the floor hard. Stan shot up but soon regretted it, groaning when his entire skull pounded in protest. He looked around in confusion. "Shit, man, where am I? What happened?"

"Pr'fessor?" Ford sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He blinked around with a small frown. "'S'okay, Fidds, jus'..." He yawned, hardly coherent. "Where'sa coffer?"

At the sound of his brother's voice, Stan started to remember the events of the past several hours. Fiddlesticks, the hotel room, Stanford, the street fight-

 _Stanford._

Stan called off his dog, then looked down at his twin, who was still looking around the room like a mindless zombie, glasses askew, fluffy hair pointing in every direction. He slapped Ford upside the head. "Hey. How's about a good mornin', Poindexter?"

Fiddleford stomped a foot down. "Ain't nobody's gettin' a good mornin' till I get me some answers! Did you two get in a fight?!"

Ford hummed an affirmative "Mm," then made grabby fingers at the engineer. "Coffee."

"You are _so_ incredibly useless in the mornings, Stanford," Fiddleford chided, handing a tall styrofoam cup to his friend.

"Some things never change," Stan teased, stretching his arms and feeling the familiar ache of well-worked muscles. Over the years, he'd started to really relish that feeling; it meant that he had fought, and it meant that he had won. It meant that he'd successfully lived to see another day.

Stanford punched his brother playfully while he guzzled down his first helping of caffeine.

Stanley looked at Fiddleford. "How many cups does it take him to function like a normal human being nowadays?"

"I reckon it's about two cups before he's formin' complete sentences, a whole pot before he's goin' beyond two-syllable words, and most of the second pot before he's any good to work with." Fiddleford handed a second cup of coffee to Stanford once the first was empty, and he gulped down about half of that before stopping to breathe.

"That's only after a full night's sleep," Stanford defended, still a tad groggy, still slurring his words. "I'm fine now."

Fiddleford huffed. "Well, if you're so _fine_ , how's about explainin' yourself? Why can't I leave you alone for a few hours without the two of you fightin' like a coupla cats with your tails tied? For goodness' sake, Stanford, look at the whuppin' you gave your brother!"

Stanford didn't have time to respond before Stanley erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Ya- ya think we fought each _other?!"_ he roared, clutching his sides as he shook with guffaws. "Ya think I'd take _this_ much damage in a fight with _that_ nerd?! Ya think he'd be able to get away from me with that pretty little face still intact?!"

"Hey! I took boxing just the same as you did, Stanley!"

"Yeah, but I was _good_ at it! Face it, Poindexter, in a fight with me, ya wouldn't walk away without a mug worse than mine. And that's if ya walked away at all!"

"Wait, wait, wait," Fiddleford interrupted. "You two weren't fightin' each other?"

"No way, man." Stan started to get control of himself, wiping a tear from his non-black eye as he caught his breath.

"Then what on God's green Earth _did_ happen?"

"I ran into some old friends. No big deal."

"Okay, no." Ford stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Stan. "It _was_ a big deal, and just because we fell asleep before we got around to it, don't think that we're not going to be discussing what happened back there."

"C'mon, Ford, what's there to discuss? We got jumped by a few goons, but we fought 'em off. Makin' it out alive is a huge success, in my book."

Fiddleford gawked. "You were _jumped?"_

Stanford turned to his colleague, arms crossed, a stern look on his face as if he were a mother informing her husband that their son had gotten into trouble at school. "Stanley has apparently gotten himself involved in a drug cartel."

"What?!"

Offended, Stan punched his brother hard on the arm. "I have _not!"_

Stanford spun around to face his brother with a scowl; he didn't hesitate to shove Stanley's shoulders as if daring him to throw a second punch. The dog growled, tensing at the sight of his human being threatened, but his warning was disregarded by everyone. "Then how do you explain the theft of crystal methamphetamine?!"

"Look, I owed money to this guy I met in prison! There was no way I was gonna be able to pay him back, and he told me he'd cut my debt in half if I cut out middleman and paid him directly with drugs. So I stole some shit, okay? But I did _not_ get involved in a drug cartel, Stanford! That shit's disgusting, and you _know_ I wouldn't get anywhere near it unless I _had_ to to keep from gettin' myself killed!"

"You nearly got _both_ of us killed!"

"Hey! _You're_ the one who wouldn't go back to the hotel when I told ya to!"

"I wasn't going to turn my back on you, Stanley!"

"Why not?! You've done it once, ya might as well do it again!"

"Everybody _hush!"_ Fiddleford shouted, silencing the room. The brothers had been reaching dangerous territory, getting closer to each other by the second until they were practically nose-to-nose, yelling in each other's faces. Fiddleford needed to reroute the conversation. He stomped toward the pair, who were looking at him like foxes trapped in the headlights. "Before you two get your panties in a twist, let's take care of what really matters here: is everybody safe?"

Stanford crossed his arms, avoiding his colleague's gaze. He spoke tersely, in his calm 'I-am-a-doctor-I-have-no-emotions-and-I-know-the-drill' voice. "Yes. Everybody is safe."

"Is anybody hurt?"

"No. As you can probably see, Stanley experienced bruising and a minor nasal fracture, but he's received first aid. Other than that, nobody has sustained any injuries."

"Well, nobody's hurt 'cept for those bad guys," Stan smirked. "We took care of 'em good."

"Don't make light of the situation, Stanley," Ford scolded. He was wearing a front of stern anger, but Fiddleford could see the profound concern in his expression. "How much danger have you gotten yourself into over all these years? You've been to _prison_ , you've lived off the _streets_ , you've stolen _drugs,_ you've learned to fight like some sort of wild animal—how many fights just like this one have you been in before? How many times have you made it out by the skin of your teeth? How _irresponsible_ could you possibly be?!"

Sensing the potential for conflict, Fiddleford took a step forward, hands out to placate the doctor before an argument could be sparked again. "Now, Stanford, don't forget that you've had a few brushes with danger, yourself."

Stanford scoffed. "Stan has a complete disregard for his own safety!" he argued.

"Then I reckon the two of you have an awful lot in common. Must I remind you of the incident with the positronic destabilizer?"

The researcher blushed at the mention of the time he nearly disintegrated himself with his own invention due to a disregard for lab safety protocols.

"Or perhaps the bulldragon?"

His blush deepened as he recalled narrowly escaping the wrath of a ten-foot-tall fire-breathing toad because he was too busy with a sketch to realize that it had noticed he was in its den.

With Stanford back in his place, Fiddleford turned his attention to Stanley, hands on his hips. "As for you. If you've got yourself in any more trouble that could land me and Stanford in hot water, you best be tellin' us now, so we can at least know what to expect."

Stanley sighed, shaking his head. "No, okay? The thing with the prison debt is the worst I ever done, and that was two years ago, in Mexico. The gang had friends in NorCal, so I guess they found me, but I didn't cause any trouble with anyone else that would be followin' me."

"Good. Now, if everybody's safe and sound, then I don't see any reason to be fussin' over what can't be undone. So let's eat some breakfast before it gets any colder."

Ford looked up with a smile when he realized there were three plates of food on the table, each with two pancakes, four slices of bacon, and a few pieces of fresh fruit. "You brought us breakfast?"

"Sure did. Wish I got you more, seein' the night you've been through."

"No, no, Professor. This is perfect. Thank you."

Stan had taken to paying attention to his dog to spare himself the awkwardness of watching the other two men eat. He ran his hand down his dog's back and started rubbing at his side, offering a belly rub. Knuckles stole the opportunity without hesitation, flopping over onto his back with a huge grin, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he happily squirmed under his Friend's hand.

Fiddlewicker's voice came hesitantly. "Stanley? Aren't you hungry?"

Stan and Knuckles sat up with identical surprised expressions; each of them recognized the word 'hungry' as an indication of available food.

The homeless man rose to his feet, slowly as possible to avoid upsetting his throbbing bruises. "There's some for me?"

Ford frowned, making a conscious decision to not think about the fact that Stanley apparently assumed he wouldn't be eating today. "Of course there's some for you."

"Didn't think I'd leave you out, didja?" Fiddleboot smiled, holding out a plate of food.

Like an inquisitive ape, Stan gently took the paper plate from the outstretched hand. It was _real_ food. It wasn't a half-eaten sandwich from the street or an expired pastry from a coffee shop. It was pancakes and bacon and butter and syrup and melon and strawberries and banana and apple slices. He just stared down at it, a look of pure wonder on his face. When the savory smell of bacon grease hit his nose, his mouth suddenly filled with saliva and he clutched his stomach with one hand when it growled loudly.

He was about to grab a pancake to cram down his gullet when he heard the soft whine of a Cane Corso.

Knuckles was peering up at him, honey-colored eyes wide and pleading as he sat innocently at his human's feet. He whined again, then licked his chops to indicate his hunger. A wave of guilt washed over Stan; it had been a week or two since he'd been able to give his dog any more than salvaged scraps from dumpsters behind butcher shops… And after all the energy Knuckles expended during the fight, he must have been starving. Stan smiled sadly, setting the plate on the floor.

Ford stood up in shock as the mastiff began greedily scarfing down the gift he'd been given. "What are you doing?!"

Stan shrugged casually, turning his head to avoid eye contact. "I'm not hungry," he lied.

"Your stomach sure seems to disagree," Fiddlefaddle pointed out when a low grumble once again resonated through the room.

The homeless man just shrugged again. "He's hungrier than I am."

Stanford and Fiddleford exchanged meaningful glances. Learning details from Stanley's criminal life had made Fiddleford more uneasy about asking Stanley to move in, but it was becoming clear that his hospitable upbringing would never allow him to leave this man behind, especially if he was Stanford's kin. Besides, Fiddleford was certain he and Stanford had dealt with things far more dangerous than Stanley before.

Ford was the first to say something, looking at his brother with determination. "Stanley, you said you've left trouble behind across the country. Correct?"

The younger twin arched a confused eyebrow at the elder. "Yeah, I'm banned in eighteen states."

"Have you burned any bridges in Oregon?"

Stan frowned. What did that matter? Why did Ford even care? "Uh, no. This is as far west and as far north as I've ever been. Why?"

Ford carefully calculated his next words, knowing that phrasing his request incorrectly would give off the impression that he was extending the offer only out of pity—that would ensure a 'no' from Stan. "Fiddleford and I have been working on a project together… Do you remember what I told you earlier about my investigation of the paranormal activity in Gravity Falls, and how I think that it's all tied to a weak spot in our dimension that's allowing creatures from across the multiverse to drift into our world?"

Stan nodded once. He hadn't totally understood what Ford was talking about when he said that last night, but he remembered him saying it, nonetheless.

"You see, the reason that I called up Fiddleford about a year ago is because I needed his help with a project. He became my assistant and we constructed a sort of portal, a gateway to the other dimension that could allow things from either side to pass freely through. It was going to be incredible. It would allow us to study other dimensions, to gain understandings of the multiverse that we never before thought possible!"

Stan curled his lip in mild distaste. He couldn't explain why, but the idea of a portal to other worlds, especially the way Ford's eyes lit up to talk about it, was deeply unnerving. "Where'd ya come up with the idea for a thing like that, anyway?"

Ford made a point to ignore the question, quickly looking away and starting to wring his hands together as he continued. "Fiddleford and I soon discovered that in deciding to build this portal, my judgement was… poor."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "Whaddaya mean, 'poor?'"

As he recalled the exact nature of Stanford's lax judgement, a shiver ran down Fiddleford's spine.

"Listen, it's much too complicated to explain right now, but the short of it is this: we decided to deactivate the portal. Even deactivated, however, it's dangerous. Far too dangerous to remain intact. We have to dismantle it. No—we have to _destroy_ it. It is _paramount_ that we damage the machine beyond repair and hide away all research that may lead to somebody discovering how to rebuild it."

 _Yeesh._ Talk about unnerving. What kind of trouble had the poor nerd gotten himself into? "Alright… And?"

Ford bit his lip. He hid his hands behind his back, struggling for the courage to ask the golden question.

"We could really use somebody with your brawn to aid us in dismantling the portal. If you wouldn't mind, Fiddleford and I were wondering…" He glanced up to meet his brother's gaze. "Well, we thought perhaps you could come back with us to Gravity Falls. You could move in and help us fix my mistake."

Stan could've sworn that his heart stopped beating for a good five seconds, there.

He was being offered a job to do. He was being offered a place to stay. He was being offered a _brother._

It took nearly an entire minute for him to catch his breath and find his voice. Then, a shit-eating grin split across his face.

"Hey—ya need help breakin' some nerd machine? I'm your guy."


	6. Seeing the Whole You

_TW: Blink-and-you'll-miss implications of manic depressive (bipolar i) disorder_

* * *

The drive from Richmond to Gravity Falls was about ten hours; Stanley's mind was nothing less than a deep pit of anxiety and nerves as he traveled northward along a painfully uneventful highway after his brother's old beat-up wagon.

(Or was it Fiddlebumper's car that the nerds had taken to California? Or did it belong to both of them? The two didn't seem to have many personally-exclusive belongings; they had taken a 'what's-yours-is-mine' sort of approach with their luggage while loading up the car; the only thing that seemed to be kept secret was one leather satchel that Ford was irrationally protective of and Fiddlepiper didn't seem to have the desire to get near, anyway. Stan had overheard one conversation: 'You're startin' to scare me with the way you're totin' this junk around everywhere, Stanford.' 'It's not junk! And I'm not going to lose my head again, okay? I just… I'd prefer to keep these things close. For now.' 'You're havin' _withdrawal_ symptoms from your own head, Doc! If we don't get rid of all this- this- this _paraphernalia,_ you'll _never_ get to thinkin' like yourself again!' 'Fiddleford, I- Oh, hello, Stanley! Are you ready to hit the road?')

There was an overwhelming lack of stimuli around Stan as he drove. He had the gentle vibration of his El Diablo rolling over rough gravel, the rhythmic huffs of his dog dozing in the backseat, the endless blue of the sky over the horizon, the subtle tang of fresh air in his mouth. The constancy of the sensations and perceptions of the long, grueling drive caused them to fade into nothingness over the hours until Stan had nothing of which to take notice and he was forced to listen to his own thoughts.

So he thought.

And he thought.

Dammit, Stan hadn't done this much thinking in his whole life.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so tortuous if Stan had any definitive thoughts, any facts or answers at all, but he didn't. He only had questions and curiosities and wonders and he couldn't stop suffocating himself with the uncertainty of everything.

Like, what was so bad about that portal thing that made Ford so desperate to get rid of it? Why did Fiddlegrass get so uncomfortable whenever anyone brought it up? Was this whole portal business really the only reason they came looking for Stan? Stan was pretty sure that wasn't the case.

Ford had never been one to beat around the bush. He said what was on his mind before thinking about how the other person would react, and if he _really_ knew exactly what he wanted from Stan from the get-go, he would have said it without so much as a 'Hey, brother.' So why did he wait so long to ask Stan to help him with the portal?

The only time that Ford ever bit his tongue was when the thing he wanted to say had to do with his emotions… Ford _always_ hesitated to express his feelings until he knew _precisely_ what he felt and how to define it. Even when they were little kids, he struggled with that stuff.

 _Moses knows how emotionally stunted the poor nerd must be now…_

So maybe Ford wanted to find Stan for some other reason, and he thought of the whole portal thing last minute to avoid talking about his feelings? Or maybe he really _did_ just need help with the portal, but he was afraid to ask because he knew that Stan would think living together meant being brothers again, and Ford _didn't_ want that?

But if Ford didn't want to be brothers again, then why would he want _Stan's_ help with the portal? He said he wanted Stan's help because he was strong, but if that was the case, he could've found any old strongman to hire.

And even if Stan _were_ the only option, if Ford didn't want to be brothers, then why had he gotten all sincere last night? (Or, this morning? Stan really needed to get his circadian clock back on track.) Why had he helped Stan fight off those goons? Why had he seemed so genuine when he told Stan he missed him?

 _He missed me._

Stan gripped at the fabric of his shirt, needing some sort of an anchor to remind himself that everything happening was still real. He had to say it out loud just to relive how impossible it sounded. "He _missed_ me."

Knuckles raised his great head and turned to face his human, making a small, inquisitive grunt.

"I mean, he _said_ he did. And I know he meant it. I can sniff out a lie from a mile away, and he sure as hell wasn't lyin'. So, I mean, fuck the details, right? Who cares _why_ he wants my help? The important thing is, we've got a place to _stay_ , buddy."

Stan still refused to say – or to even _think_ – the word 'home.' It wasn't a home. It was just some long-term shelter. Though, now that Stan was thinking of it, he wasn't sure how long-term it would actually be… How long could it take to destroy one measly interdimensional portal, anyway?

"It's not gonna be forever, buddy. It might not even be for a long time. But, hey, it'll be nice while it lasts, right?"

Knuckles whined softly and Stan felt an incredible guilt wash over him.

"Listen, maybe I can try and get a job, y'know? I'll get us our own food so we're not freeloadin' off 'em, and I won't be around too often so it's like I'm not even there unless they need me. Just make myself scarce and make sure I'm no burden. So maybe they'll let us stick around a little while, 'til we get our feet on the ground… How's that?"

Stan sat in silence for a little while as if waiting for a response. When he actually got one, in the form of a heavy canine head resting itself on his shoulder, he laughed and reached a hand back to scratch behind his companion's ears. "Atta boy, Knucklehead," he smiled. "Atta boy."

* * *

Stanford was so tense at the wheel that Fiddleford had half a mind to make him pull over and switch places with him, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to see what Stanford would start to do if he didn't have a wheel to hold onto and a road to watch; he needed something to keep his hands busy so his nerves didn't drive him to fidget and pick.

The first two hours of the drive were painfully silent but for the occasional burst of _tap tap tap_ s when Stanford started to drum his fingers on the wheel before managing to still himself once more. There were hundreds of thoughts whirring in his mind, countless anxieties that rang in his ears. But everything going on in his head came together to form a single thought, an unspeakable fact that just kept getting louder.

It was too quiet in the car. For the first three hours, Ford could handle it. He could ignore it. He could pretend that he wasn't on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

But as hour four rounded the corner, Ford realized he couldn't leave the thought to fester any longer. He had to say it: "This is a bad idea."

Fiddleford sighed. He'd known exactly what Stanford was going to say, even before he said it. He didn't need a Masters in mechanical engineering to see that the researcher had been drowning in his own head ever since Stanley agreed to move in with them. Fortunately, since he had anticipated this conversation, he already knew what he wanted to say. "Stanford, when I walked in on the two of you this mornin', you were asleep."

Ford blinked. _What?_ It took him a moment to recover from how arbitrary his assistant's response was. "You've seen me sleep before."

"I've never seen you _restin',"_ Fiddleford argued. "Especially this past month or so. You're either locked in your room like you can't pull yourself to do a damn thing, or you're doin' everything and more and you won't slow down for a second!"

Ford tensed at the mention of his episodes. He had been doing so well around Fiddleford, going almost the entire year without any serious swings in either direction, but the past several weeks had been an emotional rollercoaster. It would have been impossible for Fiddleford not to notice the downswing Ford fell into after losing the friend he thought he had in Bill Cipher or the upswing he was thrown into when he started the frenzied search for his brother.

"But either way, you never sleep. And when you do, you're in fits! You don't _rest,_ Stanford. You never rest."

Ford took a deep breath and tried to relax, just keeping his eyes on the road. But he was getting impatient. "What's your point?"

"My _point_ , Doctor, is that when I came in to check on you this morning, you were _asleep_."

After a long moment of waiting for Stanford to respond, Fiddleford realized he was going to need to spell it out.

"You were _restin',_ Stanford! You must've passed out on accident, because you were still wearin' your shoes and your glasses. And Lord knows it couldn't have been too _comfortable_ , all sat upright like that and hanging off the side of the bed, but you were snug as a bug just the same, snorin' away your worries like you never knew a poor night's sleep in your life."

Now that Ford thought about it, the ninety-minute nap that he took in Stanley's room _was_ the first peaceful piece of REM sleep he'd gotten in months. But why? He started to eliminate variables in his mind from what he remembered of that morning; if he could figure out what had been different, he could identify the cause of his restful sleep. But he could only come up with one factor that was a possible cause, and that was…

"When I saw you with your brother, Stanford, it was like seein' the real you for the first time. I don't know how to explain it, but it's as if this whole time I've known you, you've been missin' a piece and I didn't even realize it... And when I saw you two asleep together, I finally got to see the whole picture."

Stanford was beginning to shake, now, subtle tremors shooting through his hands like they were trying to remember a distant sensation. He tightened his hold on the wheel into a white-knuckled grip to still himself then took his foot off the gas when he realized they were driving about thirty over the speed limit.

"There's going to be three of us," he sighed, realizing that there was no way he could turn back now.

"Sure are," Fiddleford smiled. "I reckon a whole lot's gonna be changin' for you and me."

"The university cut off my grant money when I...when He…" Ford sighed and shook his head. "I can apply for more, but I'll have to sell some patents in the meantime. I've been so focussed on my research that I haven't created prototypes for any of my designs… I don't know when I'll have time to build anything…"

"I've got some majiggers I whipped up over the years I can patent to hold us over. And I reckon I could help you build some of your contraptions up, too."

"I can't ask you to do that for me, Fiddleford."

"You didn't ask; I offered."

A small smile danced on the edges of Stanford's lips. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't," Fiddleford teased. "But you're stuck with me, anyway."

Ford glanced up at the rear view mirror and saw his twin still following close behind them, laughing while his dog licked his face. "And we're stuck with him, too, aren't we?"

"Yep… I reckon we are."

* * *

The road to Ford's house was long and surrounded on all sides by thick forestry, tall evergreens that left a thick, musty smell in the air.

Stan parked behind the the nerds' car and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Here we go, Knucklehead. It's a brave new day."

Pushing out of the car and taking a couple of steps into the lot, he looked around him and let out a low whistle. "Poindexter's done good for himself…" He opened the latch of the backseat door and laughed when Knuckle Dusters came barreling out, eager to experience the new world ahead of him (and to stretch his legs after a long drive; they had only pulled over to let the dog pee a few times on their trip to Oregon, and the stops had been short to accommodate the scientists' impatience). But as soon as the dog got a faceful of the peculiar town's cool late-summer air, his whole body tensed and he planted himself firmly by Stan's feet, huffing with determination.

"Everythin' alright there?"

Stan looked up at the sound of Fiddlebird's voice to see that the two men had gotten out of their car and were now leaning against it, watching the dog with mild concern.

"Uh, yeah. I guess he's just nervous 'cause it's a new place?" (Although they'd moved around a lot since Stan adopted the dog, and he'd never reacted like this to a strange environment before…)

Fiddlesman seemed to consider that for a moment before nodding in acceptance and walking back around to the trunk of the car. They had packed an awful lot of luggage; Stan frowned to see the little guy hobbling toward the house struggling to carry a backpack, a suitcase, two duffel bags, and a briefcase all by himself. He glanced over at his brother, ready to accuse him of leaving the poor guy helpless, but he found Ford carrying even more luggage than his assistant.

"Hey!" Stan jogged over to Fiddlebeard and hastily took some of the bags from his arms. "Lemme help ya carry some of that!"

Fiddlebrains didn't have much of a choice in handing over the luggage, and before he could protest, he was left with only one duffel bag and a single briefcase. Stan obviously wasn't having much trouble with the heavy bags, stepping back with a goofy grin.

"Lead the way, little man!"

Fiddlebread blinked, but then grinned right back. "Why, that's right kind of you, Stanley! Thank you!"

"Not a problem, Fiddlenerd."

Stanford was standing just a few feet behind, a little surprised at his brother's apparent chivalry. "We'll take care of our luggage, Stanley. You can carry in your own bags."

Stan snorted as if Ford had intentionally made a joke. He gestured for Fiddleford to go on leading the way to the house, shrugging the duffel more securely over his shoulder as he followed. "How much stuff d'ya think I _own,_ Poindexter?"

Ford frowned, a familiar emotion twisting in his stomach. He stood still until he saw his assistant and his twin disappear behind the front door, losing himself in his own thoughts.

Knuckles stayed as close as possible to Friend from the moment he realized that the new place Felt… Wrong. It was Not Safe, but it wasn't Bad, either, just Wrong and Wild and _Weird._

And Dangerous.

Knuckles always knew his Feelings were right. And his number one job was to Protect his Friend, so he decided not to leave Friend out of his sight until he could figure out just what was so Weird about this new place.

But then Friend went inside the Building and the Building was the Weirdest out of everything. And then the door closed and Knuckles couldn't see Friend anymore and there was something Weird inside the Building and it was Not Safe Not Safe Not Safe Not Safe _Not Safe._ He scratched furiously at the door and whined and barked and pushed and rubbed until his nose was raw and splintered.

Stanford dropped all the luggage that he was holding, widening his eyes and running toward the mastiff who was seconds from breaking the door off its hinges with his weight. "Hey! That's my door!"

Fiddleford frantically opened the door when he noticed the commotion but had no time to react before the dog was plowing into and over him, searching for his human. He found Stan just around the corner inspecting a small device with a screen that flashed strange, alien-looking symbols. He was watching it from a distance, however, because the last thing he wanted to do was break something that wasn't supposed to be broken.

But when his dog crashed into him with a force that sent him onto the ground, knocking everything over in his path, it was hard for Stan to keep anything from breaking.

"Knuckles! Hey, ya idiot, get off me! I'm here! I'm safe! Babycakes! We're okay!"

The dog almost instantly calmed down; he stood over his human, a triumphant grin on his face. Friend was Safe. Friend was Protected.

 _"Stanley!_ What have you done to my _house?!"_


	7. Babysitting

"Oh, shit, Stanford, I am so-"

"Look what you _did!_ Oh, no, no, no, no, no…" Ford rushed over to where his brother was on the floor. There were shelves toppled over, papers and diagrams strewn about—thankfully, Stanford kept none of his truly valuable discoveries or inventions here in the front room. He started sorting through the various artifacts and devices, inspecting the damage. "Okay, everything seems to be intact," he breathed with relief. "My plasticized jackalope model is a bit warped, but I should be able to fix that without too much trouble… Oh! Fiddleford! Your quantum polarity dampener!"

He picked up the device that Stan had been looking at before the dog barged in, tapping some buttons experimentally but frowning when some strange symbols appeared on the screen (to Stan, it looked like it was doing the exact thing it had been before, but apparently something was wrong).

"It's destabilized," he sighed, shoulders slumped.

"I dunno what's gotten into Knuckles." Stan looked up at his brother with wide eyes. "He's never acted like that when I left him alone before, I swear! I'm so, so-"

"Professor, do you think you could do anything with this?"

The engineer sighed and took the device from his friend's hand. He inspected it for a little bit, poking at some buttons and detaching some pieces to get a closer look. "I reckon it's nothin' I couldn't fix."

Stan sighed in relief, slowly starting to stand up again. Knuckles stayed firmly at his side on high alert. "Oh, thank Moses. I'm so, so, so sorry, guys. I'll try and help ya clean it up! Or- Shit, ya probably don't want me touchin' any of your stuff anymore. I'm sorry, I-"

"Wait." Ford looked at his brother with a blank expression. "What?"

"What can I do to help? You're bein' so nice lettin' me stay here and all, and I really don't wanna screw this up-"

"No, no, I mean… Did you just say that you're sorry?"

Stan cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head, a soft blush coloring his cheeks. "I mean, yeah, I really didn't mean to break your thingie-"

"Fiddleford's."

"Huh?"

"It's not mine. It's Fiddleford's."

Stan's blush deepened. "Well, I- I didn't mean to break his thingie, either." He looked back at the engineer, who was watching the exchange with a slightly apprehensive expression. "Sorry, Fidds. Ya really think you'll be able to fix it?"

Fiddleford smiled. He'd never been called 'Fidds' before. He kind of liked it. "'Course! It's gotten its framework all discombobulated, but it won't be hard to get everythin' back to workin' order. But… if you're gonna stay here, we'll need to dog-proof this house a little bit. There's a lot of stuff the mutt could tear up, and I reckon a lot of it could really hurt him…"

Stanford looked around the room, taking in the artifacts, the diagrams, the inventions, the weapons, the essays, the specimens, the experiments… Fiddleford was right. All of it was stuff that could either seriously damage the dog or be seriously damaged by the dog; Stanley probably wasn't too safe around any of it, either, for that matter.

"We could stay in the attic," Stanley suggested. He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to seem nonchalant, but the glimmer in his eyes made it clear he was eager to please. "Ya said somethin' about an attic while we were packin' up this mornin'. I'll stay up there and keep to myself, keep the door shut so the dog stays out of harm's way. Ya shouldn't have to rearrange your whole house on our account."

"Now, you don't think we're gonna be lockin' you away up there, do you?"

"Well, no. I meant, like, just at night and stuff. Durin' the day, I figured if I'm not helpin' ya tear down that portal thing, I can go job huntin' and find a way to earn my keep around here. The dog can come with me for that. And while I _am_ helping you with the portal… Well, after a day or so, he should be calm enough to let me tie him up outside while we're workin'."

Ford blinked. Stan had really been thinking things through… And he'd been so ready to apologize for the mess he made, even if it had been an accident and mostly out of his control… He'd really changed, hadn't he?

 _Or maybe he's always been this way… Maybe I never gave him a chance._

"That's very practical," Ford noted, failing to hide the impressed tone in his voice. "Thank you, Stanley. That sounds like an excellent plan… Well, except for the part where you leave the dog outside… That forest isn't exactly safe. There are many weird things that go on out there, and leaving him alone to it is a recipe for disaster."

"We'll be happy to clean some of this stuff up so your hound can be free to wander the house!" Fiddleford chirped.

Stanford didn't seem to particularly like that idea, either, but he conceded to it with a small nod, recognizing it as the only viable plan. They couldn't take the dog with them to the lab, after all—that place was infinitely more dangerous than the main level, even if the dog had supervision.

"I mean, we ain't done anythin' with any of this stuff in months. Could be fun to go through it all and put it in one of those storage rooms you haven't used yet!"

Ford gave another sharp nod, turning his attention to the objects on the floor and setting them back up. He remained silent, muscles stiff as he cleaned his brother's mess.

He hadn't expected any of this. He hadn't expected Stan to be homeless, he hadn't expected inviting him to move in, he hadn't expected needing to rearrange his entire house, and he sure as hell hadn't expected a _dog._ These past few weeks have been a whirlwind for Stanford; it was The Incident with Fiddleford in the portal that made him realize that the thing he once thought of as his closest friend and muse was actually using him for plans of universal domination; the triangle now betrayed the researcher's trust in the form of dreams that taunted and tortured him on a nightly basis, digging up his deepest secrets and most intimate fears and turning them against him.

All of this torment paled in comparison to what Fiddleford was going through. The amount of guilt that consumed Stanford when he considered the madness his assistant was falling into over his own stupid mistake was torturing him almost as much as Bill Cipher himself (and of course the demon loved to take advantage of Ford's guilt in some of the more personal nightmares).

And Ford was tired. He was emotionally exhausted from his post-Bill depression, his manic search for his brother, the hours he spent screaming and crying over the now-deactivated portal that he had been so sure would be his greatest accomplishment. And he was physically tired, too. He hadn't slept or eaten properly in weeks. Months, even. Working on the portal had consumed his entire life, and then Bill consumed his entire life, first as a friend and then as an enemy, and then the search for his brother consumed his entire life, and now he wasn't even sure if he _wanted_ Stan with him anymore.

Well, no. No, he wanted Stan there. He didn't regret finding his twin, not at all. It was just that all this Stanley business was… a lot. Too much, almost.

Ford really, really wanted to be bitter. He wanted to give Stanley fifty dollars and a hot meal before sending him on his way and telling him to visit once a year as long as he could manage to refrain from breaking any more of Ford's stuff. But no matter how bitter he wanted to be, all he could feel was guilty. And nostalgic. And he wanted to see his brother smile again, because over these past five years he'd actually forgotten how Stanley's smile could light up a whole room and make Stanford feel at peace, no matter how tumultuous his life was. Even when he was haunted by dream demons and astronomical mistakes and half-broken friendships with Appalachian engineers, he could look at his brother's dopey grin and actually feel at _home._

 _Home…_ Did Stan even know what that felt like anymore? To Stan, had home become nothing but an old Cadillac and the strength to fight off his enemies? Was that all that he had?

The scientist was pulled from his deep well of thoughts by the soft, apprehensive whine of a muscular mastiff who was still standing firmly at his human's feet, looking up at him with wide, concerned amber eyes.

That's when Ford realized that Stanley wasn't alone. Stanley had the dog. And the dog was his home.

Stanford hated himself for feeling jealous that some mutt was able to protect his little brother when Ford should have been the one protecting him.

Or, was it Stanford's fault that he wasn't there?

Stanley wouldn't ever have needed protection if Stanford hadn't turned his back on him, after all.

Sweet Moses, this was all just too much.

"I should get to work on the portal. Fiddleford, you show Stanley to the attic."

Stan was taken aback by how abruptly his brother stood from where he'd just finished cleaning up. "Uh- Ya sure about that, Sixer? I'm sure that portal thing can wait-"

" _Don't call me that!"_ Ford snapped. It was an instinct, a reflex to be disgusted with the nickname that his former muse had permanently tainted. His muscles tensed when he realized how severely he had reprimanded his brother, but he wouldn't be able to handle the conversation that would arise from explaining himself. Not now. "It _can't_ wait. But I can work on it by myself while you get sorted out." The scientist gave a short, awkward bow to excuse himself before rushing out toward the basement.

Stan winced at his brother's harsh reaction to his term of endearment, then watched him walk away. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. "I used to call 'im that all the time when we were kids," he muttered, mostly to himself. "That was a long time ago, I guess…"

"Don't take it to heart," Fidds said softly. "He's, uh- He's been through a lot."

Stan shook his head, temporarily ridding himself of his intrusive thoughts. "Listen: I dunno 'bout you, but I sure as hell don't wanna get all angsty about my brother at the moment. Now, I ain't eaten since ya force-fed me eggs and bacon this mornin', so how's about some grub?"

Fidds let himself smile, planting his hands on his hips as he confronted the other man. "'Force-fed?' If I remember correctly, Stanley, you scarfed that breakfast down like a hog at feedin' time. You didn't even stop to breathe!"

"Alright, alright, Fiddlenerd-"

"It's Fiddleford."

"I like Fiddlenerd better." Stan winked, then carefully stepped around the room, looking around for where there may be a kitchen. "So, ya got anything to eat, or what?"

The engineer was glad to lead Stanley to the kitchen, but he started to feel a bit embarrassed as he considered what he would even feed him. There was… not much food to speak of. The freezer almost exclusively contained chemicals, solutions, and anomalous roadkill that Ford collected years ago with the intention of preserving but hadn't yet found time for in the midst of his work on the portal. The refrigerator just wasn't meant for food at all; there was a gallon of milk (which probably needed to be thrown out, now that Fiddleford considered it) and a jar of jam, but other than that, the refrigerator was for chemicals, eyeballs, strange herbs, weird potions, and any other oddity one might want to keep chilled. The cupboards were mostly empty, a few of them lined with canned brown meat, old boxes of past-stale cereal, and a jar of peanut butter.

 _Wait a second: a jar of jam… A jar of peanut butter…_

Fiddleford and Stanford hadn't been in the house in weeks, but those things don't go bad, do they? Now, if only they had some bread…

"Take a seat, Stanley! I'll throw somethin' together for you right quickly." He gestured to the table once they reached the kitchen, then he began opening up the cabinets, frowning at all the empty ones but pulling out whatever he thought might be suitable for a guest. He was so out of his element here; if there's a guest over, Fiddleford should have everything necessary to at least whip up a pecan pie! He found the peanut butter and jam, relieved that he had correctly remembered their existence, and frantically raided the pantry for some bread. When he found an unopened sleeve of saltine crackers, he thanked the heavens for his luck and tore it open, deciding that PB&J on crackers would at least make a decent snack.

He hardly had time to pull out a knife from the silverware drawer before Stanley was suddenly beside him, tearing open every cabinet. " _Dude!"_

"E-excuse me?"

"C'mon, don'tcha guys have any _food?"_

Fiddleford frowned, ashamed. "I'm sorry, I know you must be hungry and all-"

"To hell with _me!_ You dorks are up night and day workin' on some big ass project, or workin' on tearin' down some big ass project, or whatever you're doin', and ya haven't even been takin' care of yourselves, have ya?"

The smaller man seemed surprised by Stan's accusation, but he also seemed to silently admit that it was correct. Stan groaned and started looking through the cabinets more thoroughly, checking all the labels for expiration dates and setting aside what needed to be thrown away.

It wasn't as if his standards were particularly high; Stan would've been thrilled with a half-eaten, half-bruised apple from the garbage. But the sight of the near-empty kitchen combined with the disorganized vortex of terror that was the front room reminded him of long nights spent trying to convince his brother to sleep after ten consecutive hours of slaving over a science experiment or research paper.

' _C'mon, Sixer! It's three in the mornin', and you've been workin' on that thing all day. It's time to take a break, or at least_ eat!'

' _I don't need a break, Stan, and I don't need to eat. What I need to do is make sure that this write up is perfect. I'm nearly finished with the statistical analysis, and then all I have to do is draw a graph that shows the data overlaid on a T-curve. Then, once I proofread it, I'll be done.'_

' _For a genius, you're a real idiot, Sixer! C'mon, what've ya eaten in the last week? Tell me everything.'_

' _All week?'_

' _All week.'_

' _I've had a banana for breakfast every day, plus when Ma made soup on Wednesday I had a bowl of that. And then… two pots of coffee per day for seven days is fourteen pots of coffee.'_

' _I'm gonna make ya food, and you're gonna eat it, or else I'll pummel ya into the ground.'_

' _Fine. But I'm not going to sleep.'_

When Stan warmed up a bowl of leftover soup for Ford that night, he had been _so_ close to slipping a benadryl into one of the matzo balls, but he decided at the last minute that it may be better to let the nerd suffer through his exhaustion and learn a lesson.

And he _had_ suffered through the exhaustion, but he never learned any lessons. Whenever Ford got his mind set on a project, whether it was an experiment or an invention or an essay or a program, he obsessed over it until he finished or until he passed out from exhaustion—whichever came first.

It might have been a bit of an exaggeration to say that Ford would have been dead by now if it weren't for Stan, but Stan wouldn't have hesitated to put money on that statement. Who knew how far the nerd could've let his obsessions take him if he hadn't had his twin to force him to eat at least one meal a day and to sleep at least two hours each night?

"Y'know, when I met ya, I was so relieved. I was thinkin', 'Man! This is some stand-up guy right here!' I was thinkin', 'I'm so glad Ford has someone to take care of him!' But nope. You're just as bad as he is, aren'tcha?"

"Now, I ain't-"

"I bet all nerds're the same, huh? I bet neither of you've been eatin', 'specially not with that whole portal thing goin' on. I bet you've been livin' off java since the two of ya started workin' together! Ugh—where's the trash?"

Fiddlenerd feebly pointed to the trashcan in the corner of the room, which Stan promptly started filling with molded cereal he found in the back of the cabinet.

"Y'know, I really _was_ gonna try and get a job. I was gonna earn my keep, stay out of your way, keep my head down. I wasn't gonna be a burden. Ya wouldn't've even noticed I was here unless ya needed my help!" Stan was mostly talking to himself, now, going through more cabinets after finishing the ones he was working on. He found the liquor cabinet (mostly empty, what a shock) and pulled out a suspicious-looking, half-empty bottle. "But now I've gotta mother the two of ya-" He sniffed the liquor and cringed, then took a swig of it and made a face. "Eugh. Leave it to Sixer to get his hands on a bottle of vintage Gordon's and let it go flat." He took another long drink, swallowed, then stuck out his tongue. "Gross."

"Uh- Stanley, I-"

"Y'know, our pa drank enough rum you'd think Ford would know spirits are only good for like, a year after ya open the bottle. But I won't throw it out, just in case I'm desperate later. I can tell babysittin' the two of ya is gonna be a full-time job for me. I mean, what'd he say about that portal? He said he thought it'd change the world or somethin'? Nerd's always wanted to do somethin' big. I bet he worked till he was fallin' asleep in the middle of sentences, huh?"

"You really don't-"

"I mean, so much for my whole ya-won't-know-I'm-here plan. I'm gonna have to cook and clean and make sure ya take baths and ya get enough sleep… _That's_ gonna be my job. But then I'll be a freeloader, 'cause I won't have time to make money…" He was definitely talking to himself at this point, muttering bitterly at a volume that only allowed Fiddleford to hear part of what he was saying. "Dammit, Sixer, why can'tcha just take care of yourself?"

After a few moments of silence, Fiddleford decided it was finally his turn to speak. "Takin' care of us is… mighty kind of you, Stanley. I don't think we'll mind one bit for you to help us out. Thank you."

Stan looked over at the engineer and felt himself smile, his eyes softening; the expression was almost sad. Stan really liked this Fiddlenerd guy. He was so innocent and sensitive and sweet, so blissfully unaware of just how much Ford would hate Stan's involvement in his life. "No problem, Fidds. Now, wanna show me the way to the nearest grocery store? I don't know how to cook much, so we're gonna be needin' tortillas, cheese, and a shit ton of eggs."


	8. It Ain't Right

_A/N: warning for depictions of panic attacks in this chapter!_

* * *

Stanford carefully unscrewed another steel panel, the cold metal of the used-to-be portal seeping into his fingers. He shuddered as the heat was sucked from his fingertips, cursing his past self for not thinking to install proper heating in the basement when he and Boyish Dan built the house.

The cool November night was creeping into the laboratory and frustrating the man's attempts at meticulous work. He was carefully dismantling the portal piece by piece to deactivate it just so, and it required nimble fingers; but Ford's dexterity was robbed by the chilled atmosphere.

At least, he told himself the cold weather was the only reason his hands were shaking.

His trembling fingers definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his twin was just upstairs, the twin that he hadn't seen in five years, the twin that he left to homelessness and poverty because he broke some stupid science project and robbed Ford of his dream school, the single most important opportunity in his life, and Stan just broke it, wrecked it without a thought for Ford's feelings, that selfish, obnoxious, irresponsible jerk, he ruined Ford's _life_ and how could he have expected Ford to show him kindness? How could he have expected Ford to ask him to stay, to forgive him so quickly after he pulled that goddamn stunt? It wasn't like they were brothers, or they were all each other had, or Ford ended up right where he wanted to be anyway, or that no mistake could have been big enough for Stan to deserve losing his home, unable to finish school, drifting across the country for years, starving himself to feed his dog, _getting a dog_.

Ford groaned and kicked the portal, sending loose nuts and bolts flying. "You told him the only reason you wanted to see him after all these years was because you needed him to break a science project for you. What kind of sick fucking irony is that?" He dropped onto the floor and buried his face in his hands, letting them slide up his face into his hair, taking fists of the brunette fluffs and tugging hard in frustration. "You're a mess, Pines."

"Uh, Stanford?"

He snapped his head up to see Fiddleford standing in the elevator, peering out hesitantly. "Fiddleford! Yes, old friend, what can I do for you?"

"Stanley went into town to get groceries. He kinda figured out how our… _diets_ have been this past year."

Ford winced. Stan had always been so unforgiving toward the older twin's disregard for self care. He couldn't help but be embarrassed that Stan discovered the bad habit hadn't been broken. "He went out by himself?"

"I was gonna lead 'im into town, but then I realized I don't rightly know where there's a grocery store… Can you imagine that? Lived here a year and don't even know where the grocery store is! That actually made him more upset, somehow."

Ford hummed thoughtfully, realizing that he had hardly gone out for groceries at all in the past few years. He knew where the store was, but he visited only every couple of months...

Fiddleford continued to prattle on for a while, something about 'that darned hound dog,' 'a pecan pie,' and 'startin' to really like that Stanley feller,' but Ford wasn't really listening. He was staring down at his hands, lost in his own thoughts about all that's been going on in the past month—all the changes, the mood swings and nightmares, losing friends and gaining brothers. _Everything_ was changing… Everything was changing so _much_ and so _fast_.

After a while, Fiddleford trailed off, noticing that his colleague was swimming in his own head. "Stanford… You holdin' up okay?"

"I miss him." The utterance was a whisper, a vulnerable admittance that Stanford's mouth answered before his head could even consider the question; that was happening a lot, lately, his brain being too slow for his tongue. When he realized what he had said, he hid his face in shame.

"I know you do. But he's here, now. And you two have plenty of time to sort things out."

Stanford scoffed, a bitter, incredulous huff of air. "Not _Stan,"_ he hissed, clenching his fists contemptuously. "I… I miss _Him._ I miss _Bill."_

Fiddleford blanched. "Stanford, I-I told you I don't wanna talk about Him anymore."

"It just gets so lonely without Him, Fiddleford."

"Stop it. I-I don't wanna talk about Him."

"Well, I do."

"St-Stanford, _please."_

"I don't have ideas anymore. I feel empty. I feel lost. I feel… uninspired."

That was it. "That wasn't _inspiration!"_ Fiddleford exploded. "That was _possession!_ That was _addiction!"_

"Addiction implies dependence," Stanford defended, rising to his feet.

" _Exactly."_ Fiddleford stepped toward the other man and jabbed an accusatory finger his way. Stanford had a good four inches on his assistant and was undoubtedly stronger and heavier than he was. He was larger than Fiddleford in every sense of the word, but despite this, despite the way that the engineer trembled with anxiety as he approached the researcher, he felt intimidated and ashamed. "An adaptive state associated with withdrawal syndrome upon cessation of repeated exposure to a stimulus. That's why you were so obsessed with findin' your brother! You quit the demon cold turkey, and you needed somethin' to replace the _obsession_ you had with- w-with _Him!"_

"I wasn't- I know He was poison. I know He's evil and that destroying this portal as quickly as possible is the most important thing we can do. But I miss who I thought He was. I miss who He was pretending to be."

The engineer stepped back, drawing into himself, anger fading fast. He was shaking like a leaf, his mind too fragile and his scars too fresh to handle dwelling on demonic memories for too long. "Y-you wouldn't listen to me. Y-you only listened t-to Him…"

"Professor… I'm sorry…"

"A-and now they're _watching_ us. And y-you _miss_ Him?! You w-want Him _back?_ The eyes, th-the eyes…"

"Professor?" Stanford stepped forward, carefully reaching out a hand, but Fiddleford flinched away and stole into the elevator, fidgeting as he waited for the doors to close and for the lift to carry him away. "Fiddleford, wait!"

Ford's assistant crumbled to the ground, hiding himself in his arms. He was trembling too much to resist when Ford rushed to his side and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. "Th-they're coming, they're watching, they're- they're- they're-"

"Who? Fiddleford, who's watching?"

"The _eyes!"_

* * *

" _Heya, McGucket! How's the computer comin'?"_

 _Fiddleford flinched away, a deep tremor shooting through his hands and making him drop the screwdriver he was holding. "B-Bill."_

" _That's my name! Don't wear it out!"_

 _The engineer kept his head down, looking at the circuitry of his personal computer too closely, doing whatever he could to avoid looking at Stanford._

 _Because it_ wasn't _Stanford._

 _The body was the same, the face and flesh and bone, but the researcher's strong jaw and soft cheeks and kind face were corrupted by a pair of heartless, perverted yellow eyes._

 _He stiffened when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder._

 _Six fingers. Stanford's hand. But it wasn't_ Stanford's _hand. It was_ cold.

" _Come on, Glasses. Relax! You know I'd never hurt you, right? A friend of Sixer is a friend of Bill's!"_

" _I-it-" Fiddleford swallowed thickly, pushing the hand off of him weakly. "I-it- it-"_

" _Spit it out, pal. You can trust me."_

" _I-it ain't right," Fiddleford finally managed, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. "You. B-bein' in his body."_

" _But I'm a friend! I'm a good guy, remember? If old Fordsie loves me, why can't you?"_

" _I-I know, I know. I know you're helpin' us, but… But usin' his body, it- it just ain't right."_

 _Fiddleford heard a long sigh, then the footsteps of his friend - no, it wasn't Stanford, it was just his body, it was just Stanford's_ body - _slowly leaving the room. "I sure wish we could get along, McGucket. It would mean a lot to him, you know."_

 _The engineer felt a wave of guilt wash over him, and he dared to look over at the figure in the doorway. "I-I'm sorry! I'll try harder to get along with you, just… Not while you're in his body, okay? I can't do it."_

 _Stanford's body turned its head, smiling brightly at Fiddleford, who winced away and closed his eyes, unable to look at Stanford's face while it was so…_ wrong.

 _The muse ignored Fiddleford's reaction. "Sure thing! I'll talk to Sixer and see how he feels about going lonely tonight so we can have a little one-on-one time in your head. How's that sound, Glasses?"_

 _Fiddleford shuddered. The idea of Bill invading his dreams… It unnerved him somehow. But if Bill Cipher was Stanford's friend, then he should at least try, right? It_ would _mean a lot to him, after all. "O-okay. Yes. I reckon that'd be just f-fine."_

" _Seeya in your dreams, Fiddleford!" the distorted voice chirped. Then, it slammed the door behind itself as it left the room._

 _Fiddleford wanted to try to get along with Bill. He really did. But the muse couldn't visit him unless he was dreaming, and the engineer just couldn't get to sleep that night._

 _And the next day…_

 _The next day, The Incident happened._

* * *

Stan kicked open the door when he returned to the house, harboring a large brown paper bag in each arm. "Alright, nerds, I got us a pizza! And then I ate it in the car, so I went back and got some groceries!" He stood in the doorframe, his smile slowly fading into a concerned frown when no one answered his calls. "Uh, guys?"

He stepped into the house, Knuckles on his heels, and kicked the door closed once they were both safely inside. "I was just kiddin' about the pizza, guys. I only ate half of it." He carefully walked through the house, looking around but being sure not to bump into anything. "Everythin' okay? Are ya… workin' on the portal? Maybe?"

When the elevator opened to reveal Ford and Fiddlenerd on the floor, Fidds curled into a tight ball and gasping for air, Stan set the bags down on a mostly empty table nearby and ran to the elevator. "Shit, guys, _shit,_ what happened? Is something wrong? What can I do?"

Stanford pat his assistant softly on the back. "He's having a panic attack. I- I can usually calm him down, but-"

"Don't touch me!" Fiddleford cried, voice broken and strained. "Th-the eyes… The eyes…"

"Professor-"

"G-get away! Don't touch me! It ain't right! You're not him; it ain't right!"

Stan quickly dropped to the floor, instincts kicking in. "Listen, Ford, back up. I can handle this."

"Stanley, Fiddleford is my friend."

"I know, I know. And this isn't my place, but he obviously ain't gonna let ya help, so maybe stepping back is the best thing to keep him from panickin' any more. Right?"

"I don't know, Stan."

"Just trust me. Okay?"

Ford bit his lip, meeting his twin's gaze. It was true that for whatever reason, Ford's presence was making Fiddleford more apprehensive. "Okay," he finally agreed, standing reluctantly and removing himself from the elevator.

As Stan inched closer to the engineer, Knuckles whined softly and nudged Stan with his nose. Stan pat him on the back. "Babycakes, Knucklehead. Gotta help a friend."

The dog huffed softly and stepped back but kept a careful eye on his human.

"Hey, Fidds. Hey," Stan said softly. "Can ya hear me?"

Fiddleford glanced up with a quick, sharp motion, a crazed look in his eye. "Th-the eyes… His eyes…"

"Take a deep breath, Fidds. No one's gonna hurt ya. It's just me and my brother, and we're here to help." He slowly moved a hand toward Fiddleford, but stopped when he flinched away. "Hey. I'm just gonna put a hand on your shoulder. That okay?" He waited for the other man's small, short nod before making contact. "Feel that? You're here, Fidds. You're not in any danger. Just breathe."

"I-I can't… I c-c-can't, it- It ain't right."

"Hey, sure ya can. It's easy. In the nose and out the mouth, okay? I'll do it with ya." Stan demonstrated a long, slow breath, then smiled reassuringly. "See? Easy. C'mon. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four… Yeah, that's it. Great job. You're doin' great."

Fiddleford shut his eyes tight, focussing on his breaths, listening to Stanley's instructions. He slowly felt himself returning to reality, his heart rate slowing down, and after several minutes he opened his eyes to see Stanley sitting in front of him, the great dog standing stiffly by his side with Fiddleford locked in his gaze. He jumped when he noticed Stanford in the room watching the scene wearily, but he forced himself to look into Stanford's eyes and they were… brown. His irises were a dark coffee color encircling round pupils and set in a worried expression that regarded the engineer softly. They were friendly. They were _Stanford._

"Ya feelin' better, Fidds?"

Fiddleford nodded, swallowing thickly. He blushed as he began to realize the scene he'd caused. "Sweet Sally, I am so sorry, Stanley, I didn't mean to- well- I'm sorry." He looked back to his fellow scientist with a hesitant frown. "Er… Stanford?"

The researcher stepped closer. "Professor?"

"What I said-"

"What you said was true. I... I lost myself. And when you said that you didn't want to talk about it, I should have listened. There's no need for you to apologize."

Fiddleford smiled and carefully stood, stepping out of the elevator with a deep breath. "Right. Well, thank you, Stanley. For your help."

"Hey—I ain't done helpin' yet. Ya can thank me after I make ya some food."


	9. Double Dewclaws

_Alternatively titled, "Stan Put On Some Pants You Sick Idiot"_

* * *

Three days had passed since they arrived in the Weird Place, and Friend was still Safe. Each new inch that Knuckles discovered of the new house was Weirder than the last, and each new Weird thing he studied was more Dangerous, but Friend was staying Safe and that was all Knuckles could ask for.

Knuckles was getting used to the Strangers, too. He was still apprehensive, suspicious of their intentions, but he was fairly confident that Friend was Safe around them. Whenever they tried to touch Knuckles, he made sure to give wide eyes and stiff muscles to let them know that he didn't want them too close, and they always stepped away without pushing too hard. Then, Friend would smile, pat Knuckles on the back, and say, "Atta boy, Knucklehead," and that way the mastiff knew that he should keep just giving warnings instead of Protecting like he does with the Bad Guys.

Knuckles liked the small Stranger most, the one with the sandy hair and the nervous eyes. He was always on edge, plagued with jitters and haunted by something Knuckles couldn't place, but when he talked to Friend his intentions were always so Pure and the dog could tell that he was Kind. He talked to Knuckles, too. He cooed in a gentle voice that only seemed a little bit afraid, like he was trying to placate Knuckles and make friends with him at the same time. Plus, he always gave Knuckles pieces of food when the molosser asked for it, slipping little pieces of bacon under the table and only flinching a little bit when Knuckles greedily licked it out of his hand.

The other Stranger, the one that looked just like Friend but with smaller arms and a softer belly and glasses and extra fingers—Knuckles was more wary of him. He seemed nice enough, and there was something about him that made the mastiff really want to like him; he made Friend smile, and that was something that used to never happen. He was Familiar, like a warm cat in the alleyway when Knuckles was a puppy and had no one to Protect, before Friend and Car and Home. (Because Friend equaled Home; they always moved around, but they always had each other. Friend was constant, and constancy meant Home.)

But there was still Darkness in the Stranger. It was odd, because it wasn't really a part of him; it was more like a ghost or some other entity, residual energy from a previous life that lingered around him like a foreboding Aura. Knuckles wanted to get close to the Stranger because he could tell that Friend wanted to be close to him, too, but it felt important to the dog that he stay as far as possible from the Aura.

That was why he stiffened and kept watch like a gargoyle whenever Friend and the Stranger sat beside each other, whenever Friend offered a hug or a playful punch or a ruffle of the Stranger's hair.

And that was why, even though they've been Safe for three days, Knuckles still stood outside Friend's door at night, guarding the attic just in case something Weird came while Friend was sleeping.

Tonight, Knuckles was about to fall asleep at his post when he heard a noise from downstairs, a soft series of beeps that rang in the mastiff's ears like sirens. He scrambled to his feet, hackles standing on end, and descended the creaky steps toward the source of the noise, lip curled in a snarl; he was ready to bark, to create a clamor that would alert the entire house to the danger the moment he managed to confirm his suspicion of an intruder.

But in the front room, he met no smells of Bad Guys or Danger. He smelled pine needles and electricity and guilt and sonder. It was the Stranger, the Dark one with Friend's face but with glasses and a soft belly and extra fingers.

Stanford nearly jumped out of his skin when the massive presence entered the room; in the dark house, the large figure approaching looked almost like one of the cryptids he had been studying in the forest. Realization that it was only Knuckle Dusters, his brother's dog, came to the scientist as a cool breeze of relief.

"Greetings," he said softly, crouching down and reaching a hesitant hand toward the dog. He'd learned well by now how reserved Knuckles was and knew to keep all interactions slow so as not to cause him too much discomfort. He spoke, knowing that hearing a soothing voice was often helpful to apprehensive animals. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I suppose I stayed in the lab a bit later than usual."

When Ford put out a hand, the dog immediately took a step back, eyeing him with sharp suspicion as he avoided proximity. Ford frowned; why did the dog seem so much more wary of him than of Fiddleford? He knew that animals could have a sort of sixth sense, an ability to detect supernatural traces and indications of danger that would be impossible for human intuition to observe.

 _Could it be possible… that Bill…_

"I'm not a bad guy," Stanford whispered, as if the dog could understand him. "I've made mistakes, but I'm going to fix them. I'll fix everything. The universe will be safe, Fiddleford will be at peace, Stanley will have a place to live… And then maybe they will forgive me. And you'll trust me."

The scientist waited for a bit, but when the dog remained perfectly still, not reacting to his words or addressing his outstretched hand, he sighed and stood up. "You're a dog. You don't want apologies; you want food, don't you?"

He chuckled when Knuckles' reaction to that was perked ears and a hopeful expression, muscles shifting forward in anticipation. "Yeah, not like you're wasting away or anything. My brother worked harder to feed you than anything he's ever worked for; I know an emaciated animal when I see one, and you've got more fat and muscle than sense." He started toward the kitchen, and Knuckles followed him like an eager child through the front room, which was now mostly clean-they had been working hard these past few days to organize all the old artifacts and contraptions into storage. Ford suspected that once the sun rose today, they would finally be able to trust the dog to himself upstairs, which meant that Stan would finally be able to come and help them with the portal… They really needed his help.

Constructing the great machine was one thing; Stanford and Fiddleford had been enthusiastic, fueled by stories of their respective lives and graduate school experiences, untainted by nightmares or knowledge of the chaos they were cutting into. Now, they were tired. They were plagued. Their minds were unclear, their bodies fatigued. Stanford's hands trembled around his handtools and Fiddleford refused to near the frame of the portal, hovering around the control board on the opposite end of the room and dismantling his work with frantic fingers.

Ford had originally decided to have his brother move to Oregon due to guilt and concern and a desire to keep Stanley safe; he had told him they needed help destroying the portal as an excuse so that Stan didn't reject the offer (there was no doubt in his mind that Stan would have seen the olive branch as a symbol of pity and stubbornly refuse to accept it). But the more that Ford considered it, the more he realized that he and Fiddleford desperately needed help with the portal. They needed someone with a clear head and strong hands and reckless muscle. They needed Stan.

Stanford remembered as he entered the kitchen the precise extent to which Stan was needed. Their refrigerator was stocked with milk and eggs and cheese and chicken and fish; they had canned soups and sliced bread and boxed macaroni in their pantry; the long-forgotten science projects had left the freezer and been replaced by frozen vegetables and boxed dinners. The day that they reached Gravity Falls with Stanley, Ford ate his first real, hot meal in nearly a year.

(As they were standing around the table and eating, Ford had thanked Stan for going to get groceries despite the strange looks he must have gotten for wearing the same face as the mysterious recluse who hardly dared go into down; then, he regarded his colleague. "Fiddleford, I'll pay you back for the groceries as soon as the university sends me my final check."

"Why, I didn't get all these groceries; Stanley did."

"Didn't give you give him money to pay for them?"

Fiddleford blinked, then blushed as he realized that he hadn't even thought to provide a means of payment to the homeless man. "Sweet sarsaparilla," he breathed. "I-I'm sorry, Stanley, I didn't even think that you wouldn't have- Well, I'm sorry."

"Psh," Stan grinned, already cleaning off his dish; he'd scarfed down his four-egg omelette in under a minute, which left Ford worrying once again about the conditions his twin had been braving over the years. "Don't worry about it. I came home with food just the same, didn't I?"

"Then how _did_ you pay for it?" Ford asked, voice carrying an accusatory tone.

Stan stiffened for a moment, then shrugged with a casual laugh. "Hey-I'm a good lookin' guy. It ain't hard to get a gal to buy ya food."

Stanford had studied his brother for a long time after he said that, making a conscious decision not to point out that if someone _had_ purchased groceries for him, it probably had more to do with his filthy, ill-fitting clothes, his bruised and broken face, and the clearly-homeless dog who followed him as if he hung the sun. If Stan _had_ persuaded anyone into paying for his food, he likely played a needy role rather than a flirtatious one.

 _For someone to see Stan as needy, he wouldn't have to play any roles. He honestly and truly needs help; because you abandoned him. Because you betrayed him._

"Alright," Ford said finally. It was painfully clear that he wasn't falling for Stan's lie, but nobody dared mention it.)

Stan had stocked the entire kitchen by himself (years of seclusion left Stanford socially crippled and he hadn't even thought to offer to help, and Fiddleford's insistence that he at least help organize the freezer was met with Stan firmly asserting that he needed to rest as he recovered from his panic attack), so it took Stanford some time to find the box of milkbones that he remembered Stan opening yesterday to reward Knuckles for briefly allowing Fiddleford to scratch him under the chin. When he located the box, he pulled out a treat and held it out for the dog to sniff. When Knuckles tried to gently pry the biscuit from his hand, he pulled it out of reach with a smile. "Do you know any tricks, my boy? I know Stanley taught you commands." He thought back on the orders that he'd seen the mastiff obey; 'settle,' 'wait,' 'c'mon,' 'hush,' and, Ford's personal favorite, 'babycakes.' "Can you shake?" He held his left hand out and waited patiently when the dog flinched in reaction.

Knuckles sniffed the hand curiously. He still didn't trust this Stranger, but he was being kind, and he was speaking to Knuckles in a sweet, low voice, and he had _Food._ Reluctant to touch the Stranger, to come closer to the Aura, Knuckles let out a low whine, tapping his paws on the ground impatiently in hopes that the Food would drop. But the Stranger held the Food tighter, wiggling his six fingers and repeating his command:

"Shake."

He whined again. He knew that sometimes, giving High Five made Friend give up the Food. Knuckles was still suspicious of this new human, but he was hungry enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, just for a moment, just for the Food. He slapped a massive paw down on top of the hand in front of him, huffing as if to say ' _There, is that good enough for you?'_

Ford smiled at his success, squeezing the paw affectionately and inspecting it; the dog's foot was almost as big as the scientist's entire hand. When he spotted the extra dewclaw, he paled, and his proud expression quickly fell to a tight-lipped frown.

An inexplicable pang of emotion swirled deep inside of him as he stared at the double digits. How should he have felt? How was he supposed to react to the fact that his brother's companion had six toes on each foot?

He knew that, logically, this was a meaningless piece of trivia. It was a common mutation, a simple defect possible in every breed of dog, even desired in some, but for some reason Stanford couldn't stop himself from wondering if this characteristic had anything to do with the reason that Stan adopted the molosser as his own.

The dog's nervous groan pulled Ford from his deep thoughts and he quickly released the large paw, handing over the treat and letting the dog take it from his hand.

"Sorry, my boy," he said softly. "I got lost in my own head, I suppose."

Knuckles munched on the treat, grunting as if in forgiveness, and Ford smiled wistfully.

"I really missed him more than I thought I did, you know. I wish that we were able to really catch up with each other, to spend some time being brothers again, but I can't stop thinking about…" He sighed. "I guess the best thing for me to do would be to finish tearing up this portal."

He stood up and headed toward the front room, the molosser following him cautiously. He had a few hours until the sun rose, and that should be enough time for him to finish packing his old projects into boxes so that they would be able to get Stan's help on the portal once he woke up.

Periodically, Knuckles would hobble up the stairs to make sure that Stan was still safe in his bed, but he would always return to watch Ford while he worked. The researcher wasn't sure if the dog was watching him to protect him or to protect _against_ him, but he supposed it didn't matter. He appreciated the company.

It was hardly dawn when Fiddleford stepped into the room, wearing the same clothes as he'd gone to bed in, even his oxfords and tweed blazer. His eyes were sunken and somber, his lips chapped, and his depraved appearance combined with the lack of screams that Stanford had heard that night was all that the larger scientist needed to conclude that the smaller hadn't slept that night.

"G'mornin', Doc." His characteristic chipper tone seemed so displaced when paired with his tired face and wrinkled clothes; it was a canary yellow brushstroke against a dark canvas, a baby blue piece of sky peeking through stratus clouds.

"Good morning, Professor."

"You finishin' the room?"

"I thought it would be nice to start the morning off with the portal. If we can get Stanley down there first thing today, we should be able to finish deconstruction by the end of the week, and this will all be behind us."

Fiddleford nodded, then took notice of the mastiff in the corner of the room. "What's he doin' down here? Is Stanley alright?"

Ford waved a dismissive hand in the air from where he was loading books into a cardboard box. "Stanley is fine. The dog came downstairs when I came up. I think he wants to keep an eye on me to make sure that all is well down here."

Fiddleford nodded, then came to his colleague's side and helped him pack up the boxes. They worked in silence, neither one wanting to talk about why they hadn't gone to sleep that night.

Stanley didn't come downstairs for another hour; when he did, golden rays of morning light were penetrating the old house, bathing it in an orange glow and illuminating flecks of dust as they danced in the air. He clunked down the stairs wearing nothing but his boxers (Ford's boxers—the older twin had forced Stan to accept an offering of a few clean sets of underwear when he found out that Stan hadn't worn any since he lost his last pair in a poker game six months ago).

"Wassup, nerds?" he grunted, stretching his muscles out. "Where's my dog?"

Knuckles perked up and bounded over with a wide smile, jumping up to place his front legs on his human's shoulders. Stan laughed, stumbling backward at the impact of the collision; he quickly regained his balance and hugged his friend back, grabbing a fistful of wrinkles from either side of the dog's face as he proudly accepted a slobbery kiss.

Fiddleford was blushing furiously, facing away from the scene with resolve. "Stanford, tell your brother to put on some pants," he hissed.

Ford sighed, looking back down to the box he had been filling. He spoke evenly, indifferent. "Stanley, you usually have the courtesy to at least wear clothes when you come down here. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Hey, it's the middle of May; it's gettin' hot up there. Whaddaya want?"

"I want for you to put on clothes."

"Nothin' ya ain't seen before, Poindexter."

Ford smirked to himself, rolling his eyes. "No, but Fiddleford hasn't yet been subjected to… _that."_

"Aw, ya scared our son's gonna lose his innocence?"

"He's not our son."

"And I'm not innocent!"

"Oh, yeah, alright, Dorktron. Mr. Ultra-Virgin is gonna tell me he's not innocent."

"I'm married!"

"Woah, really? Good job, man! She a nerd, too?"

"Oh, sweet saltlickin'-"

"Just go get dressed, Stan. We have a lot of work to do today."

Stan patted his dog on the neck so he would back off, returning his front paws to the floor with a loud _thud_ that shook the room. The man then stepped forward with a crooked grin. "Am I finally gonna see this infamous intergalactic doorhole thing?"

Stanford and his assistant scoffed in unison.

"It's _interdimensional,_ Stanley."

"We ain't wastin' our time with intergalactic travel; it's a lost cause."

"I kinda feel like interdimensional shit should be way harder than intergalactic shit, but whatever," Stan shrugged. "Point is, I'm finally gonna see it. Right?"

"The portal is already inactive and partially dismantled, but yes—you'll be seeing its skeleton. Not until you put on some clothes, though," Ford said sternly.

"Aw, poo."

"Stanley, you know the rules: no multiversal gateways until you've gotten dressed. Now, do I need to come pick out your clothes for you, or do you think you can do it by yourself today?"

Stan grumbled as he trudged up the steps, something about only having one set of clothes, and his dog followed him up happily.

Once he heard the footsteps fade away, Fiddleford dared to open his eyes. "Your brother is impossible."

The other man shrugged, an easy smile on his face as he returned his attention to sorting through his old books and trinkets. "He can be… aggravating," he granted. "It grows on you, though."

They sat in comfortable quiet, Stanford working while Fiddleford considered the twins' relationship. After a while, he thoughtfully said, "Y'know, I've noticed something, Stanford."

Stanford hummed in mild curiosity, only paying partial attention to his assistant. "What's that?"

"When he's out with his hound, or he's in the kitchen cookin', or he's up in the attic on his own, you can't stand 'im. You go on complainin' about the messes he makes or the way he talks or his aggressive nature or crude jokes. All the bad blood between you two boils up and the mention of 'im makes you tense. You get nervous or angry or _somethin'_ that makes you have to ramble on about him bein' inconsiderate or obnoxious or whatever else."

Stanford remained in position to be sorting his books, eyes trained on the blank leather of a cool, forest-green journal, but he was still. He made no move to continue his work, nor did he turn to make eye contact with Fiddleford. He just listened, a hard look on his face, but his eyebrows were lifted just slightly in the faintest tell of interest.

Fiddleford waited a few moments for his colleague to respond, but Stanford seemed to be waiting for the engineer to go on, so eventually he did:

"When he's in the room, though, it's different. When we're alone, you act like you wanna sock him in the jaw, but when you're with him, that all melts away, and you act like I've never seen you before. It's like you're a little kid, the way you two bicker and play."

The faintest amusement found its way to Stanford's expression. "Is that so?"

The engineer nodded fondly, putting a hand on Stanford's shoulder. "Sure is. Y'know what I reckon?"

"What do you reckon, Professor?"

"I reckon you love 'im, Doc."

A soft, dry laugh escaped Stanford and he shook his head. "You're really something, Fiddleford."

"I'm honest," he smiled. "That's all."


	10. Answers

A/N: Things are getting serious! It'll be a lil heavy for a few chapters here, but lots of important stuff is coming out. happy reading! remember to leave a review!

* * *

It all happened so fast.

Ford punching in the code. The elevator opening. Stan putting Knuckles in a down-stay. Ford stepping in first. Then Fiddleford. Then Stan. Knuckles lunging forward, grabbing Stan's pant leg in his mouth and pulling back hard. Stan falling to the floor and being dragged away from the elevator before his foot could even cross the threshold. Fiddleford rushing to Stan's side. Knuckles snapping at the engineer and guarding Stan with his life. Fiddleford leaping back and taking refuge behind the larger scientist.

"Stanley, what's going on?!" Ford took a step toward his brother to help him rise to his feet, but the dog lashed out violently, baring teeth at the man with a threatening snarl. There was a severe look in his eyes, a wild amber inferno. Whenever Ford made a move to draw even an inch closer to his brother, Knuckles snapped with a terrible clash of the teeth.

Fiddleford squeaked and squeezed Ford's arm as he watched the dog turn savage. "What in tarnation is wrong with your hound, Stanley?!"

Stan was just starting to recover from the shock of his canine companion suddenly deciding to manhandle him. He propped himself up with his arms and stared down at the floor, heaving breaths and trying to bring his mind up to speed with the situation. He offered no response to Fiddleford's question.

Ford started to reach out to get his brother's attention, but the instant he moved, the dog lashed out yet again. The researcher groaned in frustration. "For Moses' sake, Stan, will you call him off?!"

"I…" Stan was at a loss. He started looking around the room, the heads of his eyebrows raised and creasing his forehead with anxiety.

Knuckle Dusters had some behavior issues. Stan knew that. He wasn't properly socialized and he could be overprotective of his human friend. But that overprotectiveness had saved Stan's ass more than once in the past. The Cane Corso's intuition was always something Stan could trust; even when someone or someplace seemed perfectly harmless to the vagrant, the second that Knuckles gave warning, Stan knew it was time to bail.

Last month, when Stan was kissing on a pretty girl in the back of a shady bar in hopes of being invited to her place so he would have a roof over his head during that night's broadcasted thunderstorm, Knuckles bit her leg and scared her off before Stan realized that her boyfriend was about to notice them.

Back in February, when he was about to shake hands with a counterfeit artist who was offering him a gig, Knuckles pulled him away just in time for him to miss the knife in the criminal's other hand.

Almost a year ago, when he was _this_ close to successfully sneaking himself and his dog (who was, at the time, a 30-pound puppy) into a movie theater for a few hours of free shelter and floor popcorn, the pup made himself known and got them kicked out of the theater right before the film started. Stan had been furious at first, but the headlines in the next day's paper shocked him:

'A REAL BLOODBATH: 6 KILLED, 18 INJURED IN SHOOTING AT LOCAL SCREENING OF _CARRIE'_

That was when Stan decided to place his undying trust in the dog. And there was no way he would stop trusting him now.

"Stanley! Call off your dog!" Ford demanded again.

"No."

Ford's eyes grew wide in bewilderment. " _Excuse_ me?"

Stan took a deep breath. "Look. Ya told me this machine thing was dangerous. That was fine. I deal with dangerous shit all the time, and so does he." The transient gestured to the mastiff, who was still standing protectively over him. "But the difference between me and him is, he's smart. He can tell the difference between safe-dangerous and _dangerous_ -dangerous, and he ain't ever given me a reason to doubt his instincts before. So here's the deal: I'll call 'im off, but only if ya promise to give me some answers."

Fiddleford was watching the scene nervously, chewing on his lip. A thick, tense silence stretched on as Stanley waited for an answer. The engineer looked up at his colleague. "W-well? Aren't you gonna tell 'im?"

Stanford's face was a poor attempt at cold stoniness, only achieving a vague concoction of anxiety with a wide dash of fear and a pinch of shame. "Stanley, there's nothing we haven't told you," he lied.

Stanley scoffed, rising to his feet as he spat, "That's bullshit."

The older twin flinched; though, it wasn't as if he could have ever expected Stanley to buy into his weak denial.

"I was tryin' to be nice, Ford. I was tryin' to just sit down so I didn't rock the boat. I didn't ask what made this portal bullshit so dangerous. I didn't ask about that voodoo crap ya had on the walls. I didn't ask about those creepy journals you're always carrying around or why ya won't let me touch 'em. I didn't ask Fidds about 'the eyes' or why he wakes up screamin' every night. I didn't ask questions when that elf thing came into the house yesterday and asked me when I got a haircut and where my extra fingers went-"

"Well, actually, that was a gnome-"

" _I didn't ask._ But I can't not ask anymore. _Somethin's_ goin' on down there that's givin' off some real bad joo-joo, and I need answers."

Stanford swallowed thickly, turning his face away in shame. Fiddleford imagined he knew that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell Stanley would magically start buying into his lies, but he must have been desperate to get him to drop the subject. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dammit, Stanford! Yes you _do!"_

"St-Stanford, just tell 'im! He has to find out sooner or later."

"There's nothing to tell."

"There is too!" Fiddleford exclaimed, surprising both brothers. "I get that you're guilty, Stanford, but you can't pretend like nothin' ever happened! Stanley deserves to know: this town is dangerous, that portal is dangerous, and _you_ are dangerous!"

Stanford tensed visibly at that remark, and Fiddleford immediately regretted making it, but he couldn't go back now.

"If you want atonement for what you've done, you need to stop runnin' away from it. We both made mistakes, we both regret it, and we're both tryin' to fix what we did! D'you think I don't wanna pretend it never happened? D'you think I don't want to _forget?!"_

Clenching his fists behind his back, Stanford turned his head to hide his rigid jaw and desperate eyes.

Fiddleford took a deep, trembling breath, averting his gaze to the side, as well. "I know you think about it," he said. His voice was soft but firm. "I know all you _do_ is think about it. I think about it, too. What I've done… What we've caused…" He huffed, building up his nerve, and looked back at his colleague, raising his voice. "But we're fixin' it. And we can't fix it without his help. _But he ain't gonna help us unless we tell him what's goin' on!_ Ain't that right, Stanley?"

Stan widened his eyes at the mention of his name, glancing around the room like a nervous child looking for an escape from being dragged into the conversation. He was freaked out enough by all the things Fiddleford was describing, all the cryptic implications of his words, not to mention the severe look on his brother's face of denial, frustration, and something more, something distant and desperate and angry and _guilty,_ something that Stan didn't recognize.

And it was terrifying.

He didn't say anything; he tried more than once, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue to the back of his teeth, but his throat was a bear trap and whenever he tried to produce sound, sharp metal teeth clamped down on his breath and lodged it in place. The fiery interrogative demands he had been pressing before were overcome by confusion, by fear, and by concern.

He found himself as a child watching his parents fight, his feeble twelve-year-old mind unable to comprehend the issues they were discussing as they yanked him unfairly into the argument. Ma was shouting that Pa was too cold, too distant, and the kids didn't feel loved, and isn't that right, Stanley? And he was at loss for words, nervously picking at the band-aids on his arm as if he would find answers under the flimsy latex. Ma was watching him expectantly, Pa was facing away, and Stan was frozen.

The difference between now and then was that this time, Stan's best friend, his only friend, his rock in windy seas wasn't off in some arithmetic competition leaving Stan alone and helpless, searching for something to say under the old black-and-brown scabs he was scratching off of his elbow. This time, there was no Mathletics. This time, his friend, the one that he knew he could rely on no matter what, was standing in front of him.

This time, Stan's rock was right _here._

And it was the dog.

He put a hand on Knuckles' back, patting firmly. "Settle down, sugar," he directed, using the mastiff's conveniently stocky build to use as support, half because he wanted it and half because he knew that the gentle pressure of his weight leaning against Knuckles provided the dog comfort. It reminded him that Stan was Here and Alive and Safe. "Babycakes. Ya did good, buddy. We're safe. Everyone is safe."

Knuckles huffed and made a move like he wanted to sit down but quickly stood back up, whining softly as if to say, _It's not over yet. They're fighting. They're angry. It's still dangerous._

The mastiff had no experience with verbal arguments. In his short lifetime, raised tensions and harsh tones of voice inevitably led to punching, biting, fighting, fleeing. He was visibly calmer once Stan called him off, clearly willing to set violence aside at his human's request, but he refused to retire the possibility of needing to override the command if push came to shove.

Stan knew all of this. He figured, though, that as long as he could get within ten feet of the other men in the room without the dog trying to kill them, that would be enough. He rose to his feet but kept a hand on Knuckles' back to remind him of his presence.

Fidds looked confused at Stan's sudden calm, the way hundreds of thoughts seemed to pass through his eyes at once before he gathered his composure, the way he spoke to his dog in a soft but urgent voice, the way he rose to his feet with a firm, determined expression, the way his eyes were like daggers of sharp resolve. Hesitantly, the professor asked, "Stanley?"

Stan held up a hand to the smaller man to silence him. His gaze was fixed on his twin's cold shoulder. "You're my brother, Stanford, so I'm gonna call ya out: this is bullshit. I don't know what the hell happened, but I don't care. Ya gotta tell me, because whatever ya did, I'm gonna stand by ya. If ya think whatever happened was a mistake, I'll help ya fix it. And if ya don't regret it, I'm takin' your side, no matter what. 'Cause you're my brother." He stepped forward to stress his point. "I wanna help ya, Ford. Can't do that if ya won't talk to me, though."

A pregnant silence followed. Stan's eyebrows slowly lowered over his eyes, knotting together as he realized that his twin had no intention of responding. The researcher just stood there, impossibly still, hiding his face and his hands behind a rigid front.

Stan sighed after a minute and gave up, shoulders slumping. He sluggishly turned around and started toward the kitchen, Knuckles at his side. "C'mon, Fidds," he grunted, gesturing to beckon the engineer to follow him. "We got somethin' to talk about."

Fiddleford shot a glance toward his colleague, who was still an unmoving iceberg. For a moment, he hesitated, concern bubbling in the back of his overactive mind and filling him with a reluctance to leave Stanford alone. The feeling was quickly replaced by stern determination, however, accompanied by frustration with the brunet's stubbornness and a familiar anger, and he spun on his heel before following Stanley out.

This was going to be a long day.


	11. Stanley Holmes

The moment that he reached the kitchen, Fiddleford had expected Stanley to jump into conversation with both feet like he usually did, getting straight to the point and burning down the bush where others might beat around it. Now, however, he was silent.

His muscles were stiff under the thin, dirty-white cotton of his shirt, which was stretched and torn, ill-fitting after years of Stanley's muscles growing; his build was very different from the thicker, softer shape it had been when he purchased the shirt in the tenth grade. His deltoids and trapezii moved tensely as he dug through the refrigerator in search of something that looked decent to eat. He ended up pulling out a packet of pastrami and shoving a slice in his mouth, then dropping one on the floor for Knuckles. The engineer watched awkwardly, debating whether he should say something to prompt Stanley to speak or just continue to wait. He was about to decide on the former when the transient's gruff voice interrupted the atmosphere's quiet.

"So, how much does this have to do with your nightmares?"

Fiddleford jumped, taken aback at the direction this conversation was going in. He scrambled for a way to respond. "I, uh- I-I'm sorry, I- What?"

"C'mon, I might be dumb, but I can connect the dots. That look ya get when Ford talks about the portal thing? Same look ya get when he asks how ya slept."

Stanley waited for beat, but he sighed when Fiddleford continued to look dumbfounded.

"Listen, Doc—you're a doctor or somethin', right?"

"Uh, actually, I've only got my Master of Science in mechanical and electrical engineering, and I received my undergraduate degree with a double major in physics and mathematical quantum mechanics, as well as a minor in biochemistry. Your brother's got a couple Doctorates, but I'm no-"

"Alright, great, great. So, here's the thing, Doc: I know ya wanna pretend I don't notice that you're always wakin' up screamin' in the middle of the night. I get it, y'know? Anyone knows how pretend somethin' didn't happen, it's me. But it's all comin' outta the woodwork now. Things're gettin' weirder and I got a feelin' that bringin' it out in the open's the only surefire way to fix whatever the hell's hauntin' the two of ya, am I right?"

He waited for Fiddleford's small nod.

"So ya got nightmares. We've cleared that up. But here's the other thing: Ford looks at ya like he's sorry. Like he blames himself for whatever the hell went down with that portal, like whatever happened, it happened to _you._ He's also got this overactive conscience thing goin' on, the two of us always have, so I bet he thinks it's his fault. Honestly, he gets so absorbed in his work and careless about the people around him, I wouldn't be surprised if it _was_ his fault." Stanley started speaking more quietly toward the end, there, a certain bitterness rising in his tone. He paused for a moment, then shook his head as if to brush off the ill will and start anew. "I've had tons of practice lookin' in the mirror and feelin' sorry for myself, okay, so I _know_ what this face looks like when it's guilty. It ain't hard to figure out that he did somethin' shitty and left Doctor MacBucket in his wake."

"Uh- I'm not a d-"

"So, Doc, here's my conclusion." He paused to eat another piece of pastrami in a single bite, then continued around a full mouth. "Obviously, my brother's obsessive personality finally took somethin' way too far, you guys're broke in the aftermath, and that's why he's all pissy. And ya got hurt real bad 'cause of whatever he did, too. So maybe that's why ya have nightmares all the time."

Fiddleford was bewildered. He just stared as Stan grabbed a slice of Kraft cheese to cram in his mouth after so casually analyzing the whole situation.

When Stan went on, it was a bit quieter, softer around the edges. "The reason I'm askin' is, uh… It's 'cause I know ya been through some shit, but I also know some people just have nightmares. Some people just have bad dreams and it ain't got nothin' to do with some huge catastrophe. Some people just got brains that ain't too nice to 'em- not me! Just, y'know, some people…" He coughed and cleared his throat awkwardly, staring down at his hands as he rubbed the back of his left with the thumb of his right. "So, uh, I dunno, maybe it's got nothin' to do with the intergalactic- er, the interdimensional thing. Either way, I thought maybe you'd wanna talk about it. Y'know, Ford's great and all, but he's… not the best when ya wanna have feelings or whatever. 'Specially if he's the one that's the problem…"

Still, the engineer was at a loss, flabbergasted by the larger man's perception skills and his oddly specific evaluation of the situation. But it wasn't the _specificity_ of his analysis that baffled the engineer—it was the _accuracy._ Stanley was just standing there and nonchalantly drawing these conclusions that were unexplainably _correct_ , utilizing flawless deduction skills as if he were Sherlock Holmes at the scene of a crime. Was Fiddleford really that easy to read? Or… maybe Stanley was just really good at reading people. Maybe the brash, brackish young beggar wasn't so feeble-minded, after all.

Fiddleford was barely able to wrap his head around Stanley's perceptiveness before he realized what he had actually been _saying_. He was offering to _listen_ to Fiddleford. He was offering someone to talk to that wouldn't recoil in grief whenever the fragility of the engineer's mind state was brought up.

He didn't realize how badly he needed someone like that until the offer was made.

"Stanley, I-"

"Stanley."

Both of the kitchen's incumbents turned to confront the familiar baritone voice that had entered the room. Stan swallowed his current mouthful of meat and cheese and quirked an eyebrow. "Look who found his voice."

Ford looked away sheepishly, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Fiddleford is right. If we want to fix this mistake, I'm going to need to swallow my pride. Perhaps understanding the extent of the danger will help _you_ work more efficiently, as well."

"Thought it'd be harder to bring ya to your senses."

The older twin clenched his fists, pushing them behind his back. "The fate of our universe lies in the timeliness of this portal's destruction," he justified.

Stan blinked, a nervous laugh escaping him. "Yeesh, Poindexter, when'dja get so dramatic?"

Fiddleford glanced around the room anxiously. "I'll, um… I'll leave you two alone."

As he walked out of the room, he placed a hand on Stanford's shoulder and gave him a meaningful look. The taller scientist nodded once, then turned to look at Stan once the smaller was gone.

Stan crossed his arms expectantly. "So, ya gonna tell me what's goin' on here? You've been actin' like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee."

Ford pulled his hands from behind his back and started playing with his fingers. "Listen. I have no idea how you might react to this, but we can't dwell on it too much, alright? There isn't much time. I've made _huge_ mistakes, and I don't know who I can trust anymore." He started nervously scratching at his skin, hands shaking.

"Hey—easy, there. We can talk this through, okay?"

"I… I have something to show you. Something you won't believe."

"Look, I've been around the world, okay?" Stan put a hand gently on his brother's shoulder and offered a small, reassuring smile. "Whatever it is, I'll understand."

* * *

"There is nothing about this that I understand."

Before him, spread out on the floor of Stanford's bedroom, were three journals, thin tea-colored pages bound into thick red leather. They were all open and arranged to assemble a single image, complicated blueprints that Stan recognized no part of.

Well, he recognized one thing about it. It was something that made his insides twist and curl, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stick straight up and made Knuckles lean against him protectively. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"It's the blueprints for the portal," Ford quietly explained. "The concept was so beautiful: a trans-universal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe… but it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. That's why I shut it down. Once it's dismantled, we'll also have to hide these journals, which explain how to operate it. If someone were able to build and activate a machine this powerful, it could yield catastrophic results. It could mean the end of our universe as we know it."

Stan was only half-listening to his brother at this point, transfixed by the blueprints. The large triangle, the circle in the center, it reminded him of something so hauntingly familiar, but he couldn't figure it out. He ran a hand over the page as his brother's words started blurring together until he eventually heard none of it. He was lost in his own thoughts and feelings, trying desperately to remember why he recognized this symbol.

Then, just as he was noticing doodles of eyes and triangles in the margins of the blueprints, small providential sketches, he heard Stanford use the word 'dream.'

He zeroed in on a particular sketch, an all-seeing eye with a top hat and bowtie.

He interrupted whatever Stanford was saying with a quiet laugh that was only a little bit nervous. "Heh. Ya dream about this guy, too?"


	12. Wrecking Ball

"…It could mean the end of our universe as we know it.

"It all started just over a year ago; I had hit a roadblock in my investigation of Gravity Falls, until I found some mysterious writing in a cave, ancient incantations about a being with answers. It warned me not to read them, but I was desperate. I read the inscription aloud, but nothing happened…" He started picking at the skin around his fingernails. "…Until later that afternoon, when I had the most peculiar dream-"

When Stan's chuckles cut him off, he realized that the younger twin hadn't heard a single thing the elder had said. He was ready to get frustrated, to get angry, even, to scold his brother for taking nothing seriously, but his breath caught in his throat when Stan said, "Heh. Ya dream about this guy, too?"

Every muscle in Stanford's body froze. Even his heart seized, holding stiff and still for a long moment as he felt his world crashing down around him.

He was paralyzed.

Through clenched teeth, he managed to growl, " _Who?"_

Stan looked surprised at the severity of Ford's reaction. He picked up the book with the illustration he recognized and held it up to the scientist, pointing at the drawing in the corner. "Twin super powers, bro. We're connected."

Ford jumped off of his bed and lunged at his brother, ripping the journal from him. "You didn't shake his hand, did you?!"

"What? I don't remember, I-"

He threw the journal down and grabbed Stanley by the shoulders, ignoring the dog's low growl of warning. "Remember!" he commanded, urgently shaking his twin back and forth. "Have you ever shaken his hand before?! Has he ever asked anything of you, even something that seemed insignificant at the time?!"

Stan scowled, pushing Stanford off of him. "Moses, Ford! No, alright? No, I haven't!"

"Are you _certain?!"_

"Yeah! I'm sure! Yeesh, what's gotten into ya?"

Ford backed away, starting to pace around the room nervously. "When?"

"When what?"

" _When did you dream about Him?_ How many times? What did He say? Tell me _everything."_

"Hey, woah. Cool it, Poindexter. Just last night, alright? That's the only time."

"What happened?"

"Nothin'! It was just a dream. This thing came up to me, made fun of me, told me everythin' I already know. Same as my normal dreams."

A terrible, tremendous panic swelled in Stanford's chest. "What do you mean it was the same as your normal dreams?! You said you've only seen him once!"

"I have!" Stan defended. "I mean it's like my normal dreams 'cause of what he was sayin'. But it's usually not him abusin' me, it's usually…" he trailed off, blushing lightly as he turned away. Then, he shook his head. "S'not usually him. Ain't ever seen 'im before last night."

"What was he saying?"

Stan's blush deepened. "It doesn't matter."

Ford found this downright infuriating. " _Of course_ it matters, Stanley!" All at once, he was under siege by so many feelings that he had trouble identifying them: rage, terror, and anxiety were all of course present. Dejection and crippling feelings of betrayal were crawling back up, as well. Something insidious lurked beneath, however, and Stanford was absolutely _disgusted_ with himself when he realized what it was:

Jealousy.

Stanford was supposed to be special. He was smarter than Stan, smarter than anyone. He was ambitious and cunning and tactful and quick-witted and creative. So what use did Bill have of _Stanley?_ What could He possibly want from him?

Also, how _dare_ He enter Stanley's mind? How _dare_ He speak to him? That was Ford's _brother,_ and Bill had _no_ right to interact with him, to haunt his dreams and make him ache the way that He made Stanford ache.

Stanford's enraged instinct to protect his little brother was warring with his desire to keep Bill all to himself, and the battle was tearing him apart.

Luckily, he didn't need to sort through his emotions right now or decide whether the jealousy or the worry would win out; either way, the same course of action was required: find out what happened, then get Bill the hell away from Stan. "I need to know _everything._ Every detail that you can remember is important."

"Why? It was just a dream, Stanford! What're ya freakin' out for?"

Ford huffed; all the nerve he had built up to tell Stan the entire story was long gone. He settled for the short version, the bare minimum that would satiate Stan enough for him to understand the importance of disclosing all his information. He rushed through the explanation so that Stan wouldn't have a chance to stop him and ask questions.

"His name is Bill Cipher. He's an extremely powerful entity capable of crossing over dimensions. He can enter people's dreams. If they make a deal with Him, if they _shake His hand,_ He can enter their minds, as well, gaining access to all of their knowledge and memories. He can even enter people's bodies and use them as a sort of vessel. But other than that, there's no way for Him to manifest a physical form in this dimension; that's why He tricked me into building the gateway. Activated, it would provide Him a means of passing into and wreaking havoc upon our universe. He's _evil,_ Stanley, and He's cruel, and worst of all, He's incredibly clever. I need to know everything that happened in your dream so that I can make sure you're safe."

Stanley was quiet for a long time, staring at his brother as if sizing him up. Stanford's apprehension began to grow as he waited for a response.

Stan was mostly worthless, but if there was anything he was good for, it was being able to tell when people were lying. And Ford… Ford was being honest, here. Painfully honest. And that was fucking _terrifying._

"You've gotta be shittin' me," was the first thing that left his mouth. "What the fuck, man?"

"Stanley, is that honestly all you can say?"

"Uh, yeah! Yeah, that's all I can say! What the _fuck?_ Ya make me live in your house for _three days_ before tellin' me it's haunted?"

"It's not _haunted-"_

"But _you're_ haunted?"

Ford averted his gaze quickly, jaw clenched. "You don't believe me."

"Of _course_ I believe ya, Ford—Ya might've gotten better at lyin' all these years, but I can tell when someone's connin' me."

"If you believe me, then why aren't you taking this seriously?"

"' _Seriously?'_ Ya want me to take ya _seriously?_ If ya wanted me to be _serious,_ then why the hell didn'tcha tell me all this before? Why'd ya hafta be so cryptic and brooding about the whole thing? After all the shit I've seen since I got here—those frickin' gnome things, that weird bird-octopus, _the beards?_ Hell, I shoulda known some demon was pullin' the strings the second ya invited me up here. Why the hell else wouldja wanna see my sorry mug again?"

The last question was uttered mostly to himself as he realized all he was really doing was seeking sympathy, and 'pitiful vagabond' had never been a good look for him.

The worst part was that he half-expected it to work. He half-expected Ford to make real, actual eye contact with him for the first time since that night in the hotel half a week ago and to say, 'I wanted to see you again because you're my brother, Lee. Wherever we go, we go together.'

Actually, no—the _worst_ part was that Ford reacted exactly how Stan's _other_ half expected it. He reacted coldly, avoiding eye contact as earnestly as ever, even holding a hand up over his brow to act as a wall between them (and as a twisting dagger in Stan's heart).

"That's not important right now, Stan. Just tell me about your dream. Your dream is what we need to be worrying about."

"Ya don't wanna talk about it, huh?"

"Do _you_ want to talk about it?" Ford dared, and the gravity of his voice hit Stan like a sack of rocks in a cold, wet sidestreet when his 'boss' realized how incompetent he was.

The vagrant just sighed, looking away and busying himself by playing with the links on his dog's chain as he gave in. It would be useless to fight; the faster he could get this over with, the better.

"It started like the dream I have almost every night. Always starts, I'm back at h-" He bit back the forbidden work, swallowing it down before it could leave his lips. Shaking his head to dispel painful memories, he started over: "I'm in Jersey, on the beach, goin' swimmin'. Then, I go under. And I sink. S'like I got cement shoes on, but I don't—I'm just… sinkin'." He grabbed a fistful of his shirt, closing his eyes. "That's usually when y- uh, when _someone_ shows up, starts bad-mouthin' me. Really cuttin' me to the quick, y'know? But instead of, er, the usual person, it was this… this Bob Suffer guy. Mr. Creepy Triangle Pants."

Knuckles let out a low, humanlike whine, pressing his head against his human's shoulder as he sensed his distress. Stan smiled a bit.

"Heh… S'okay, buddy. C'mere." He wrapped the molosser in a muscular hug and pulled him down onto his lap, where he grinned and squirmed like a pup as he got comfy.

Ford's harsh voice interrupted their moment. "Stanley. Your dream."

Stan sighed, looking down. It wasn't that the events of the dream were particularly painful to recall; the berating that he received was old news to him. At least one night a week for the past five years, the homeless man was victim to a cold and unforgiving ocean before his subconscious manifested in Stanford's image to abase the younger twin in every possible way. He was so used to sinking that the panic of water filling his lungs never woke him up, anymore, and he'd made it past the drowning part so many times that he lost any emotional response to the belittlement. He no longer had any self esteem to be deprived of; the dreams were merely a nuisance, now. Even last night's dream, although it was bizarre that the triangle replaced his brother, failed to leave him feeling very sad.

He wasn't sad; no, he was _embarrassed._ He didn't want to tell Ford about this. He didn't want to be vulnerable around him. He didn't want him to realize how little self-worth Stan had left.

But if this Bing Sulfur thing was actually _inside Stan's mind_ (which was _disgusting,_ by the way—Stan felt violated in ways he'd never felt before, and he'd been violated in a _lot_ of different ways), and if it was anywhere near as dangerous as Ford made it sound, Stan would give the story up.

"I don't remember everythin' he said," Stan admitted. "He showed up, called me by my whole name, jus' floatin' around me without a care in the world. I'm at the bottom of the ocean by now, and he offers to float me up top, but I said no way. Wasn't sure what it was about 'im, but right off the bat, I knew I couldn't trust 'im. Guess I was right, huh?"

Ford just grunted his agreement. Funny—it almost sounded sad.

"Anyway, uh…" He shut his eyes tighter as he tried to remember. "The name Bill rings a bell, I guess. Think he told me to call 'im that. Then he told me… uh, he told me how lucky I was to have a roof over my head. And I was like, 'Yeah, tell me about it.' He took that literally, though. Started listin' all the reasons I don't deserve this."

That gave Stanford pause. He glanced up, and his eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

Stan shrugged and absentmindedly played with the corners of Knuckles' mouth. "Just, y'know. He started tellin' me how worthless I am. I don't got no skills or nothin'. I don't got no friends. I ain't smart. Never accomplished nothin'. I-I break everythin' I touch…"

The older twin felt his stomach twist into a pretzel knot. Those were _his_ thoughts—not recent thoughts, of course, but thoughts he'd had over the past five years. The thoughts he had shared with Bill. Bill was using all the negativity Stanford harbored toward Stan to insult him, to berate him.

"Then… Er, then he told me I don't belong here. That nobody wants me around, that I deserve to rot out on the streets and I'm a burden and Fidds just pities me and made ya take me in like a stray cat ya gotta feed to keep your conscience clear… He said you'd all be better off without me."

That's when Ford realized Bill's intentions. He knew that they needed Stan's help to destroy the portal. He knew that if He wanted to get the portal rebuilt and reactivated, Stan was His first obstacle. He was trying to get Stanley to leave.

He was trying to take Stanford's brother away.

Stanford's fraternal instincts slowly started to overpower his envy. Any and all residual longing that he had for Bill began to pale in comparison to the growing feelings of rage, betrayal, and shame—and protectiveness. "What happened then?"

"Well, I told 'im to fuck off, of course. But he laughed at me and just kept goin'… I don't remember everythin' he said, but it was all along the same lines, I swear. It got a little deeper after a while… Worse than usual, now that I'm thinkin' about it. But nothin' important."

Ford leaned forward. "It's all important, Stanley. I need to hear everything you can remember." Okay, maybe he was pretty certain at this point what Bill's intentions were, and he believed Stan when he said Bill had done nothing but insult him, and in all seriousness, Stanford probably _had_ already heard everything he needed to hear. But he wanted to hear the rest. He yearned to know what else Bill had said. He _had_ to know, for his own sanity (or what little of it remained), just how badly the demon had bruised his brother. "What did he say?"

Stan wanted to stop the conversation right there. He really did. But he glanced up from massaging Knuckles' paw pads and Ford was _looking_ at him, paying attention to him in a way that he hadn't since middle school. So for his own selfish, attention-seeking ass, he kept going. He kept talking because he didn't want it to end; he didn't want Ford to stop caring about him again.

He almost wished he at least had something of substance to say, something that would make Ford _really_ care. But all he had was ordinary stuff. Obvious stuff. Stuff Ford already knew.

"Stuff like how I've never been important to anyone. How Pa didn't want twins. How I was the throwaway, how I've always-" He swallowed thickly, then cleared his throat; it was just so _awkward,_ bringing it up in front of Ford like this. "I've _always_ been the throwaway. And anyone who knew me back in Jersey would be disappointed to see I'm still kickin'."

Ford ground his teeth. Those weren't his thoughts, anymore; Bill was coming up with all that on His own.

"His voice kept gettin' louder… He told me I'd be doin' ya a favor to leave. He said you're too guilty and Fidds is too polite to tell me to get lost, so I should take it upon myself... Uh, he actually said if I was good for anythin' I'd just off myself for good, but since I'm a coward, next best thing would be leavin'."

Stanford's knuckles were white. His voice was barely audible, his teeth clenched as he hissed out, "He said that?"

"No," Stan answered quickly. "No, not in those words."

"What _did_ He say?"

"Uh, he... He said I'd be better off dead."

And for Stanford, that was it. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Threaten the destruction of the entire universe? Fine. Ford will still harbor some level of twisted, reprobate infatuation with you.

Tell Stanley Pines that he'd be better off _dead?_ Sayounara, Cipher.

"I know why He visited you last night," he growled. "He wants to convince you to leave so that you can't help us dismantle the portal."

Stan blinked. "Really?"

"If He can trick someone into reactivating the machine before we manage to destroy it beyond repair, He can still enter this dimension and resume His plans."

"Alright, so what makes _me_ so important? If I was dead-"

"Don't say that."

"Okay, yeah, but if I _was-"_

"Were."

"What?"

"If you're going to be morbid, you may as well use proper grammar."

"Sweet Moses, Stanford, ya haven't changed a bit. I mean, except for bein' half-crazy and havin' a weird friend and... big arms."

Ford started tapping his foot impatiently. "You haven't changed either, Stanley. Except for being vagrant and homeless and having a dog and absolutely no ability to take care of it or yourself."

 _Ouch._ Stan shook his head and sighed. "What I'm sayin' is, with or without me, you're gonna be able to break the thing. I don't gotta be here for that. Why-" He took a deep breath. _Here goes nothing._ "Why'd ya ask me to move up here? The real reason."

 _There it is: the big question._

The scientist hesitated, drawing into himself and chewing on his lip. "Fiddleford and I are weak. We're still reeling from recent events and we're unable to work to our fullest potential." There was a glimmer of honesty in his eyes, a line of effort drawn into his brow as if he truly were working to tell some portion of truth. "You're strong. You've always been strong, and if what you did to those goons back in California is any indication, you've gotten even stronger. When I saw you fighting those guys, I realized that you could help us. You're reckless and brash, yes, but that's what we need. Fiddleford and I—we're calculators. We're carpenter's squares and compasses. We're nail pullers and pry bars. But the meticulous work that we're capable of isn't going to be of any help now; right now, we need the other end of the hammer... Stanley, we need a wrecking ball."

 _And I miss you and you're my brother and I forgive you and I'm sorry-_

No. Ford was going to tell him originally, but things got complicated when they decided to take Stanley to Oregon. Bill was far, far more important now, and they couldn't afford distractions.

Stan clenched his fists.

He knew that Ford wasn't giving him the whole truth about the demon thing. That was fine—he could get that, later. Stan finally found out why he was here: to do a job. He'd never accomplished a single thing in his whole life, and having a purpose filled him with a new sense of determination—determination to prove himself.

If some isosceles freak wanted him out of the picture, he'd just use that as extra fuel for his resolve.

"Alright, Poindexter. This conversation ain't over—but I'm puttin' it on hold. What can I do to get my dog to let me in that elevator?"

Ford rose to his feet. "Nothing."

"What? Ford-"

"Just—stay out of trouble, okay? I'm going to go do some research and see what I can't find to serve as a quick fix for this."

"Hey, I can help too, ya know-"

"Try to avoid sleep, if you can—it's the only way to stay away from Him."

"C'mon, Poindexter, just hang on for a minute-"

But Stanford was already walking away.


End file.
